


Music For A While

by ladylapislazuli



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Obliviousness, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21600880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylapislazuli/pseuds/ladylapislazuli
Summary: “We have… a history.” Felix’s tone is weighted, and his flush deepens.Dimitri stares at him. Waiting for more, but no more comes. “Oh?”Felix looks at him in disbelief. His face is so red the colour has even spread to his ears. Through gritted teeth, he elaborates, “We wereinvolved.”“Involved?” Dimitri repeats dumbly. Felix is looking anywhere but Dimitri now, but why should he be so embarra-Oh.Oh. Involved.- - -Three years after the war, and Felix is still strange with Dimitri. Not angry, not resentful, just... distant.Dimitri does not understand.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 1047
Kudos: 1439





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [［譯］讓音樂流淌片刻 | Music For A While](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23157445) by [betty302](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betty302/pseuds/betty302)



> TRIGGERS WARNINGS: Mental health. Please see end notes for more details.*

_Music for a while_

_Shall all your cares beguile_

Felix’s arrival in Fhirdiad is heralded, not by trumpets, but by a chorus of giggling.

Dimitri is in his office when it starts. He is trying to force a long series of numbers into his brain, but his concentration is interrupted by a sudden burst of feminine excitement. The familiar pattering of feet outside the door of his office. Excited whispers followed by nervous laughter and hissed conversations up and down the corridors.

“Oh no, look at my _dress_.”

“Is my hair all right?”

“What do you think? Shawl on or off?”

“Get back to work,” a sterner voice cuts in. But no sooner have the first girls scurried away than the next take their place, fretting about their appearance and shouting at each other for clips and pins.

Dimitri regrets, sometimes, that his office is in such a central part of the palace. He likes to be accessible, to be able to _feel_ what is going on around him. People are usually mindful not to make too much noise when they pass him by. But when Felix arrives, all bets are off.

Setting down his quill, Dimitri leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes. It is nearly lunchtime. The summit starts right after, but he supposes he will just have to rely on his aides to recall exact numerical figures. There is no way he is going to memorise anything with the thrum of excitement running through the palace.

He gets to his feet and steps out onto his balcony.

The air still carries the bite of winter, but the spring sun shines down on his face. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air, then searches the courtyard below for Felix’s familiar figure.

There. Talking to a stable hand.

Dimitri leans against the railing and watches the exchange, taking more amusement from it than he should. Felix has grown into himself these last few years. He is a capable and efficient leader, a wise advisor, and though his manner remains curt he has a reputation as a just and even-handed man.

He is also, in must be said, startlingly handsome. He has always been good-looking, but these last few years have transformed him from attractive to heart-stopping. He is all dark hair and sharp angles, lean strength and the kind of bone structure that looks as though it came right out of a storybook. His mere presence is enough to send near half of Dimitri’s staff into helpless distraction.

Right before his eyes, Dimitri’s stable hand – a competent, experienced girl who can handle even the feistiest of stallions – has something of a meltdown. Drops the reins when Felix hands them to her, stumbles over her own feet in her haste to pick them up, then drops them _again_.

Dimitri should not laugh. He likes Elaine, and she is an excellent worker. She is never so clumsy when Dimitri dismounts from his own horse. They chat, in as much as any of his staff ever chat with him. Stiff, slightly awkward given their respective stations, but both of them attempting to ignore the divide while simultaneously paying each other utmost respect.

She is nice. Dimitri hopes Felix isn’t saying anything too unpleasant.

Once Elaine has the reins firmly in hand, Felix pats his horse’s flank and stalks off towards the palace. Either oblivious or apathetic to the way Elaine stares after him, her shoulders slumping.

Dimitri heads back inside. He knows Felix – Felix will come and speak to him directly. Sylvain is also due to arrive soon, but Dimitri is expecting him to wander into the first summit meeting late and unrepentant, as is his usual method.

A few minutes later Dimitri hears a sharp rap on the door. Two strikes, clean and sure.

“Come in,” he calls.

Felix strides in, and suddenly Dimitri understands Elaine’s fumbling. Felix’s hair is windswept, his eyes startlingly amber in his face, his cheeks flushed from the ride here. His expression is severe, but it only serves to bring out the sharpness of his cheekbones. He is, somehow, even _more_ handsome than when Dimitri last saw him.

That should not be possible. Dimitri is not sure how he does it, for Felix is hardly a vain man. He is not the sort to waste time on primping, yet somehow, and with little effort on his part… Dimitri has known Felix for many years and through many indignities, but even _he_ is blind-sided by Felix’s looks sometimes.

“Dimitri.”

Dimitri jolts out of his thoughts. Shakes his head and gestures towards a chair in front of his desk. All the giggling must be rubbing off on him.

“Felix,” Dimitri greets. “It is good to see you.”

Felix’s expression is one of cool disdain, but then, it usually is. “You haven’t done anything about your staff situation, I see.”

No further greeting, but Dimitri is not expecting one. Felix sits and crosses one leg over the other, and Dimitri finds himself following the motion of Felix’s lean, muscular thigh.

Dimitri has not been sleeping enough – he should not be so distracted.

He pulls himself together. “What happened this time?”

“One of your stable hands is ill-qualified for her position,” Felix says. “You’re too soft. You don’t have to hire every person who comes begging at your door, you know.”

“My staff are good at their jobs.” Dimitri remembers the look on Elaine’s face as she looked at Felix and fights down another surge of amusement. He really should not find this funny; it is unkind of him. He continues, hedging, “Perhaps they would not be so nervous if you were… well, a little friendlier with them.”

“I fail to see how I could intimidate them with _you_ hulking about.” Felix gestures towards Dimitri, as though that should be proof enough of his argument.

“You would be surprised,” Dimitri says. Felix narrows his eyes, and Dimitri moves the conversation swiftly onwards. If Felix does not know the effect he has on people, Dimitri is certainly not going to be the one to tell him. “How was your journey?”

“Fine. Now, about my last letter.”

Never one for small talk, he launches immediately into the news from his own territory. He and Dimitri have been in frequent correspondence, of late. The war ended three years ago, but things are by no means settled. Three separate countries have become one, but tensions still remain. A feud between old families recently hit crisis point, and there has been an outburst of violence in the Fraldarius duchy.

Fortunately, Felix brings good news.

“Everything is under control now,” he says. “The main instigators have been punished, but I’ve allocated everyone else service to the community. They didn’t like being made to work together at first, but it seems to have smoothed things over.”

That part was Dimitri’s suggestion. Felix does not thank him, but open acknowledgment of the plan’s success is, from Felix, a grand gesture indeed.

“I am glad to hear it,” Dimitri says. He smiles warmly, and Felix’s eyes flicker away from him, as they so often do.

“I’m hungry,” Felix says. Conversation apparently over, he gets to his feet. Pauses, and looks back at Dimitri. Says, slightly awkward, “Are you coming?”

Felix is not by nature a hesitant man, but he speaks as though he does not wish to presume. If it were anyone else – Sylvain, Ingrid, Annette – he would have said ‘come on’. But with Dimitri, he asks. With Dimitri, he is uncharacteristically… well, Dimitri is not sure what the word is. Careful, perhaps. Felix is careful.

They have come a long way from Felix barking insults at him and demanding Dimitri fix things. But on the whole, Dimitri is not sure if this odd caution is any better.

“I would be glad to,” Dimitri says, despite the mountain of work on his desk.

They make their way downstairs. Quiet, but companionably so. Felix is a warm, familiar presence at his side, and Dimitri feels lighter than he has in months.

He gets so weighed down by his work, sometimes. There is never any reprieve, never any sign of letting up. No sooner does he solve one problem than a new one pops up and requires his immediate attention. Ruling Faerghus would have been task enough – ruling the whole of Fódlan is a task not even the greatest of his ancestors ever undertook. A task which, no matter how hard Dimitri works, seems insurmountable.

With Felix here, though, Dimitri can pretend. Can enjoy being in the company of one of his oldest friends, just two people spending time. Felix is not cowed by his position. Felix knows him, and tells Dimitri what he really thinks, and does not expect Dimitri to be perfect all the time, and the relief of that goes beyond words.

The feeling of lightness does not last, of course. They round the corner as the delegates from the Church of Seiros arrive, and Felix comes to a sudden halt. Dimitri takes a few more steps before he notices. Turns, confused, but Felix isn’t looking at him.

His gaze is fixed on one of the knights. A tall, strapping man in a shining suit of armour who spots Felix at about the same time. Murmurs something to his lady and bows low, then makes his way over to Felix. Bows again, a hand pressed over his heart and a broad smile on his face.

“Duke Fraldarius,” he says. His voice is warm and melodic. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“…Sir Wesley.” Felix’s reply is terse, but he holds out a hand for the knight to shake. Something… odd passes between them. Something hidden beneath Felix’s stern countenance and Sir Wesley’s smile.

Then, with a jolt of surprise, the knight spots Dimitri nearby. It is unusual, to say the least – Dimitri is generally hard to miss.

“Oh! Your Majesty, I beg your pardon.” Sir Wesley whips his helmet off his head, and his fair hair cascades around his face. It is only as long as his chin, but it moves in waves, shining as bright as his armour.

He bows even lower to Dimitri. “It is a great honour, Your Royal Majesty. I apologise for not greeting you properly. I am at your most humble service.”

Dimitri can feel his eyebrows rising. The man is effusive, to be sure. “Think nothing of it. You have met Duke Fraldarius, I take it?”

It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Felix’s face contorts into a grimace. He glares at Dimitri behind Sir Wesley’s back, and his cheeks go pink. Dimitri can only stare at him, helplessly, utterly confused as to what he has gotten wrong.

“We are old friends,” Sir Wesley tells Dimitri, oblivious to the exchange going on over his shoulder.

Felix turns on his heel and stalks off towards the dining hall. Sir Wesley straightens up, beaming, but whatever he means to say next dies when he turns around and sees Felix striding away. For a moment, even his golden hair seems to wilt.

It is all very strange. People usually flee from Felix, not the other way around.

“How long have you served as a knight?” Dimitri asks Sir Wesley. Continuing with the conversation as though everything is normal.

The knight turns back to him. Rallies admirably, but his smile has dimmed. “Three years, Your Majesty. I am fortunate indeed to be sent on such an important mission. It is the highest honour.”

It is a national trade summit in peace time, but Dimitri appreciates his enthusiasm. “It is an honour to meet you. I hope your stay here will be comfortable. Now, please, take a moment to rest before the summit begins. You have travelled far.”

“I will, Your Majesty, you are too kind.”

The knight returns to his lady – an academic-looking woman Dimitri vaguely recognises from other such meetings – and Dimitri follows Felix into the dining hall.

Felix sits at an otherwise empty table. The cloud of anger around him is an almost physical force.

Dimitri takes the seat beside him gingerly. “Is everything all right, Felix?”

Felix doesn’t look up from his steak. Hacks into it with his knife. “You didn’t have to _talk_ to him.”

“I am the king. It is my job to talk to everybody.”

Felix’s hand stills. He makes an irritated noise – which, for him, is acknowledgment of Dimitri’s point – then returns his aggression to his meal.

This is not how Dimitri hoped to start their visit. He never seems to get things right with Felix, always has one fall-out or another, but this is a new record. He sees Felix rarely enough as it is. Letters are not the same, and Dimitri is so busy that he is hardly the world’s best correspondent.

“Has he offended you?” Dimitri says.

“Just leave it, will you?” Felix shoves himself out of his seat, his cutlery clattering onto his plate.

Dimitri thinks Felix is going to storm off. He can feel his heart sinking, but he does not understand what he _did_.

But… Felix pauses. Looks back at Dimitri, his brow furrowed. Says, reluctantly, “I… sorry. Just – I’ll see you later.”

It feels a bit like whiplash. Dimitri has no idea what to make of any of this. “As you wish.”

Felix’s mouth twists, and his eyes dart over Dimitri’s face with a look Dimitri cannot read. He does not say any more. Strides out of the hall, leaving most of his lunch untouched.

There is nothing for Dimitri to do but stare after him.

\- - -

The first afternoon of the summit is purely introductory.

All the attendees gather together. Dimitri says a few words, welcoming them to Fhirdiad and thanking them all for attending. Various lords and ladies take their turn to speak, introducing themselves and their hopes for the summit. Sylvain, true to form, wanders in late, but it does not matter. He has not missed much – the real talks start tomorrow.

Dimitri is not looking forward to it. Trade summits are a special form of torture. In name, Fódlan is one unified country. As far as trade is concerned, however, it is about thirty. The lords jealously guard the resources within their respective territories, and none of them show any inclination of wanting to play nicely with the others. _International_ trade is a simpler affair at present, and that is saying something.

Things will get easier. Three warring countries do not blend into one overnight, and old arguments are not quickly laid to rest. Dimitri is not an authoritarian king, and so will not _order_ resources from one territory into another. As such, he must slowly coax cooperation from his lords and ladies. It is just going to take time. Time, and an awful lot of boring meetings.

He spends most of this one distracted by Felix. Felix’s dark mood has not let up. He sits at Dimitri’s right hand, and if Dimitri did now know him well, perhaps he would not notice his tension. Dimitri keeps trying to catch Felix’s eye, but Felix refuses. Stares blankly at whoever is talking, his eyes dark and expression forbidding.

As soon as the speeches are done, Felix all but bolts. Sylvain shares a look with Dimitri, his expression both amused and exasperated, and follows after Felix at a more sedate pace.

There is nothing for Dimitri to do, then. Whatever is bothering Felix, he is more likely to speak with Sylvain about it. They are close, in an easy kind of way Dimitri cannot imagine achieving with either of them.

Things are easier with Dedue. But Dedue is in Duscur.

Dimitri heads to his chambers. Takes a bath. Dresses again in his finery, tidies his hair, and checks the time. Just under an hour until he will be expected to re-emerge for the evening’s social event.

He feels tense, antsy. His mind keeps wandering back to Felix. To his glare, to his anger, to his _apology_ and the hesitancy with which he approaches Dimitri. It seems like every time Dimitri sees him, Felix is further away. Dimitri’s advisor, Dimitri’s _friend_ , but distant and careful and _strange_. And Dimitri does not understand why _._

He forces himself to breathe out. He is tying himself up in knots. He needs to calm down.

He does what he usually does to calm himself these days. Dimitri makes his way over to the upright piano in the corner of his chambers and sits down.

Scales first. He takes two long, steady breaths and sets his fingers over the keys. C major, A natural minor, A harmonic minor… There are so many still to learn, but it is a slow process. Hard and laborious work, a process of repetition. The same thing over and over, until his clumsy fingers obey. Until he plays smoothly, rather than hacking at the keys with too-strong fingers.

He moves onto his songbook. Clunks his way through a simple arrangement of a famous piece, though Dimitri has never heard it before. He is, all things considered, a poor excuse for a music student, for he knows none of the songs or composers.

He is not playing well tonight, but it does not matter. With his mind focused on reading the music, other thoughts have little time to creep in. The tension building in his chest releases, bit by bit. The piano is an instrument of discipline, and discipline is one thing Dimitri has always understood.

He finishes the piece. Checks the time, and he has to get moving now. Almost immediately the tension comes flooding back in, because he does not _want_ to take up his mantle again. He wears no crown, but sometimes he swears he can feel it, ringing his head, weighing him down. So very, very heavy.

Dimitri stands. Closes his songbook, sets his piano stool to rights. Pulls on his cloak and gives himself a last look in the mirror.

He does not look like a king, not like the kings of old. There is no glory, no magnificence. He looks like what he is – pale and tired and helplessly mortal. Only a man, and not a very good one at that.

\- - -

The foyer is filled to the brim with people in the finest of clothing.

The heralds announce Dimitri’s arrival, as they always do, with a blast of pomp. Dimitri descends the staircase with a neutral expression fixed in place. There is a smattering of applause (it happens regularly, even though he has done nothing but walk down some stairs) and the moment his feet touch the floor of the foyer he is swamped by lord this and lady that. People shaking his hands and introducing every one of their relatives, and Dimitri dons a smile and welcomes them all.

Smile, bow, shake hand. Smile, bow, shake hand. By this point, it is almost mechanical.

When there is a lull in the stream of guests, he looks around the foyer for his friends. They never approach him at events like this – they always wait for him to come to them, if indeed he can find the time.

He wants to find time. Already he can feel his mask slipping, and even a moment’s reprieve would be welcome. Sylvain is around here somewhere, and he is always good company, always manages to make Dimitri laugh. Felix is here, Annette too, and Dimitri has not seen her in what feels like forever. He is assuming she made it here safely, for he did not have time to greet her on her arrival.

The Goddess smiles on him. The crowd parts and he catches a glimpse of bright red hair. Annette, tiny but unstoppable, gesticulating so wildly she almost loses the glass in her hand. And there, standing by her…

For a moment, Dimitri forgets what he is doing. Felix. Dressed in navy, the dark colour accentuating the narrowness of his waist and the long lines of his legs. His hair is loose around his shoulders, framing his angular, handsome face. He smiles, sudden and sharp, and Dimitri’s stomach flips.

Dimitri forces his attention back to where he stands, readying himself to greet the next wave of people.

During the next lull, Dimitri seizes his chance. He makes his way across the room to them, pretending not to notice when someone else tries to catch his attention.

“Your Majesty!” Annette chirps. She beams and leans up on her tiptoes. Dimitri takes the hint. Bends down so she can kiss his cheek, fond but restrained.

He smiles. But it occurs to him, with sudden and visceral clarity, that this is not how she will have greeted Felix. With Felix she needs no titles or caution. Dimitri has no doubt that she flung her arms around him the moment she saw him, exuberant as ever. Knows Felix, for all his embarrassment, will have allowed it. Will have returned it, his arms winding around her strong and sure. Even after all these years, she is never as easy with Dimitri.

Dimitri forces the thought down. His mind is unhelpful, sometimes. He does not know why he dwells on such things in the few precious moments he has with her.

Felix raises his eyebrows when Dimitri straightens up. Behind Felix, some ladies are whispering behind their fans, making gooey eyes at him and glaring daggers at Annette. Felix pays them little mind.

“Why are you dressed for a funeral?” Felix demands.

Annette elbows Felix in the side, but Dimitri is used to him. He looks down at himself. Black tunic, black belt, black gloves. Shirt and breeches, both black. The only pop of colour is a blue pin, the colour of his house, but these are some of his finest clothes. What does it matter if they are all black?

He usually wears black, these days. Colours feel… wrong, somehow.

“What is wrong with these?”

“Nothing, if you’re in mourning. I thought this was supposed to be a party.”

“I suppose I am not the partying type.”

Felix looks at him for a long moment. His jaw is tense, and there is something unreadable in his eyes. The moment passes when he turns his head away, folding his arms across his chest.

“It is good to see you, Annette,” Dimitri says. “I trust your students are treating you well.”

“Oh yes! Still, I’m looking forward to a break. The term is almost over.”

“I hope the concert will serve as a well-earned reprieve, then. I hear the performers are very good.”

“I can’t wait!” Annette is bouncing up and down. “I hardly got any sleep last night I was so excited.”

“And you stayed up late because you hadn’t marked all of your exams yet,” Felix cuts in. His expression opens up at he turns to look at her. His lips quirk – he is teasing her.

Felix is terribly fond of Annette. He never looks at Dimitri like that.

“You’re the _worst_ , Felix,” she says, equally fond, and Dimitri’s stomach clenches. Things are so easy between them, but Dimitri…

“I will leave you to it,” he says abruptly.

Annette’s mouth opens in surprise, and he sees her exchange a look with Felix before Dimitri plunges back into the crowd. He does not look back.

He regrets his sudden exit once the pang fades. He has missed them, after all, and his distance from them is his own fault. He has no business envying them their closeness. He is so busy ruling that he has little time even for those he loves the most.

He has little time to dwell on it. Hears a voice from behind him.

“Good evening, Your Majesty.”

The next wave of guests. Dimitri plasters on his smile and turns to greet them.

When it comes time to go into the concert hall, he looks around for Felix and Annette again. He should not have left them so rudely. Should have plastered his smile back on, but it is... harder with them, somehow. Harder to pretend.

He can sit with them, at the very least. Even if he is poor company otherwise. No one expects him to talk during the performance. He can just… be with them.

He cranes his neck and - there, up ahead, joining the stream of people moving into the hall. They make a fine picture, Felix offering his arm and Annette throwing back her head with a laugh. She slips her arm into Felix’s, her smile radiant.

Another pang, but Dimitri pushes through it. Strides towards them, determined not to be waylaid. His steps are quick and purposeful, and he should make it to them in time.

His eye, though, scans the periphery - checking, always checking - an instinct from years on the run. And he spies a young lady hovering alone on the side of the foyer. Sees her nerves in the twist of her hands, the craning of her neck as she looks around.

And Dimitri… Dimitri stops.

He has a moment of indecision. Felix and Annette are at the entrance to the hall, about to go in, and he will miss them if he dallies any longer. But the young lady is alone, searching the crowd with an increasingly panicked air about her, and he cannot just _leave_ her there, surely.

He has a duty. He has a duty.

Dimitri changes his path. Felix and Annette disappear into the hall, and it feels like a blow, like a yawning chasm opens in his chest. Dimitri is a weak man. He is a _king_ ; he has no right to feel miserable over something as small as this.

He pulls himself together. He swore he would do right by his people, and acting like a gentleman is the least of his duties.

“Excuse me, my lady.”

The young lady starts. Her eyes widen as she looks up – and up, and _up_ \- at him. If possible, her nervous face turns even whiter.

Even dressed up in all his finery, there is no mistaking Dimitri for anything other than what he is. His scars speak for themselves. He cannot blame her for her trepidation.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asks, as kindly as he can manage.

“Ah, n-no,” she stammers. “Just my p-parents, but I cannot see them.”

“Perhaps they have gone into the hall already. Would do me the honour?” He holds out his arm.

“Th-thank you, Your Majesty.” She barely squeaks the words out, cannot meet his eyes, but she loops her arm through his all the same.

One of his aides is hovering by the doors to the concert hall. Probably intending to shepherd him into a seat chosen by the highest bidder, as is the usual way of things. Dimitri had hoped to avoid it. No chance, now.

“Am I correct in thinking your father is Lord Denmar?” he asks the young lady.

“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” she says. “My name is Olivia.”

That rings a bell. “Lady Olivia, of course. The painter.”

Her head snaps up, and she is clearly startled that he remembers. He smiles down at her, and for a brief moment she smiles back. Her face goes from white to scarlet so quickly that he is astonished she does not faint, and she abruptly turns her attention back to her shoes.

Dimitri’s aide has indeed selected a seat for him, but he escorts Lady Olivia to her family first. Keeps a firm hold of her hand as she awkwardly negotiates the cramped aisle on her way to her seat, wobbling slightly in her heeled shoes.

“I hope you enjoy the concert, my lady.”

Her sisters, two glamorous-looking ladies with gentlemen of their own, are staring at him with open mouths. Lady Olivia’s cheeks are still scarlet as she nods in mute acknowledgment. Her mother not-so-surreptitiously nudges her.

“T-thank you, sire. Y-you as well,” Lady Olivia stammers out.

People were nervous enough around Dimitri when he was a prince, but that is nothing to how they are now.

“We are much obliged to you, Your Majesty,” her father, Lord Denmar, adds quickly. He leans over the seats, and from the eager look on his face Dimitri can see another conversation coming.

“Not at all. Good evening to you,” Dimitri says, and hastens away before Lord Denmar can get started.

His own seat is right in the middle of some of the most well-to-do and demanding nobles in all of his kingdom. They talk at him in simpering, sycophantic tones until the performance begins, and Dimitri is finally granted reprieve.

It is a good show. Music and dancing, grand sweeping numbers that are met with much applause and gasping from the general audience. An extravagant performance to welcome guests from all across the continent.

Dimitri does not absorb any of it. He stares ahead, unfocused, heavy exhaustion weighing him down, and only his duty keeps him in his chair. He cannot relax, not in his present company, but as long as he keeps his eye fixed straight ahead no one will speak to him.

Noise, colour, light. They all blur into one. Cheers from the crowd, the thundering beat of the drum. Dimitri just sits.

Then the music turns quieter. A slow, melancholy piece starts, and Dimitri wakes from his stupor. Watches as a single male dancer takes the stage - a prince, Dimitri assumes from the costume, though he has not been following the story. The man dances, dark-haired and graceful, but it is the music that captures Dimitri’s attention. The music that washes over him, captivating him.

For a moment, the lights from the stage strike just right, and he sees Felix and Annette seated several rows ahead of him. Felix’s head tilts to look at Annette. The lights make his eyes shine, even from here. Dimitri traces the aristocratic line of his nose, the way the shadows play across his handsome face.

The music fits him, somehow. Fits with how Dimitri thinks of him, all fondness and regret.

The prince dances on, but Dimitri has eyes only for Felix, long after he turns away. Even as the last notes fade, and the stage explodes into noise and colour again.

Dimitri stays in the quiet melancholy. Shuts his eye, and tries to burn the melody into his brain. Sorrow, loneliness… hope. Suffering, fading away at last.

When he lays his head down that night, that melody lulls him off to sleep.

\- - -

Trade discussions begin in earnest the next day.

Though the details have changed, the general gist of discussion is very much the same – that is to say, the same nonsense cropping up over and over again. Nobles from what was previously the Leicester Alliance banding together in stubborn refusal to trade grain with previously Imperial territories for anything less than an exorbitant price. Imperial territories retaliating with complaints about heavy usage of trade routes through their own lands, and why they should be entitled to tax road use extravagantly. Faerghus nobles chiming in with their own petty complaints, lamenting the restricted hunting rights along the borders of their territories and Imperial ones, demanding access to the heavily populated forests in the name of ‘fairness’. Never mind the families who have maintained those territories for hundreds of years and have no intention of yielding their sovereignty over any part of them.

It is spiteful, and it is petty. None of them have any serious complaints to bring to the table, only long-standing dislike and a burning desire to swell their own coffers as much as they can. The Faerghus-Imperial-Leicester divides are not the only problem, either, for the nobles dislike their immediate neighbours every bit as much as they dislike their once-enemies.

“We have heard your arguments on leather trade several times,” Dimitri cuts in when it looks like the representatives from House Varley and House Hevring might come to physical blows. “I suggest we lay the subject to rest.”

Whatever issues it has caused with Felix, Sir Wesley’s presence, surprisingly enough, proves to be a great asset. As far as Dimitri understands it, he is here to escort the Church representative beside him. Not a diplomat, but a guard. He does not act like one. Speaks loudly and regularly, with the same unstoppable enthusiasm as when Dimitri first met him.

“Hear hear, Your Majesty!” he says. “Let us make peace, my noble friends. What are neighbours for, but to help each other in times of need? And, of course, to amuse each other with our folly.”

It is a joke. He grins broadly, and to Dimitri’s surprise the room laughs with him.

Dimitri does not know how he does it. The meeting goes on, dull and intermittently hostile as ever, but Sir Wesley’s presence is a soothing balm. He laughs, he jokes, he slaps the table emphatically whenever he makes a point. And nobody seems to mind. _Dimitri_ does not mind, even when Sir Wesley derails the whole thing in order to tell a long anecdote about a pub crawl that ended with him up on top of a mountain with no memory of how he got there.

No one interrupts him. The man is just so charming. Even without his armour, he gleams. He leans into the table, smiling at every person there, and all of them – even the most ill-tempered – lean in with him. Not even Felix interrupts the man, though his expression is pinched.

When they are done for the day, they have made more progress than Dimitri anticipated. He calls the knight to him.

“Sir Wesley.”

The knight comes at once, inclining his head respectfully. There is enough noise as the attendees speak among themselves to cover their conversation. Felix, though, watches with sharp eyes as he tidies his things.

“You have quite a way with people,” Dimitri says. “Thank you for your work today.”

The knight looks startled. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. He bows, low at the waist. “You honour me, Your Majesty.”

Felix shuts his notebook with a loud snap. Dimitri looks over at him, but Felix refuses to make eye contact. He is about to go to him when Sylvain makes an inopportune appearance, materialising by Dimitri’s elbow and tugging him away. Sylvain’s grip is like iron, and Dimitri has no choice but to go. Still, he does not miss the way Sir Wesley turns to look at Felix, or Felix’s answering glare.

“I have a friend I’d like you to meet,” Sylvain says, and all but drags Dimitri over to where a finely dressed lady stands waiting.

The lady giggles and curtsies and holds her hand out for Dimitri to kiss. He does, but he is unsure why Sylvain gives him such a heavy look and then abandons them. She is a pretty woman, very much Sylvain’s type. Surely Sylvain wishes to see her too.

The lady is looking at him expectantly, so Dimitri starts the conversation. “Are you enjoying your stay in Fhirdiad?”

She twirls her hair with her finger. Her jewellery tinkles with the motion, and her perfume is delicate and feminine. Not overpowering, which Dimitri appreciates, for many women seem to drench themselves in scent.

“It is a remarkable city,” she says. “And I must say, it is an honour to meet you at last, Your Majesty. I have heard so much of you from Margrave Gautier.”

“Indeed?”

“Of course.” She blinks rapidly, in a way that suggests she has something in her eyes. Fortunately it resolves quickly. “He and I are good friends. It is a delight indeed to finally meet you. The stories do not do you justice.”

“You are too kind.” Dimitri looks away, trying not to seem as awkward as he feels. His eyes alight on Felix once more.

Felix, standing in the corner with Sir Wesley, having what looks like an argument. His hand gestures are sharp and precise. There is a frown on Sir Wesley’s face, and his hands are held in front of him placatingly.

“You are too modest,” the lady says. Laughs, soft and feminine.

Dimitri turns back to her. “I beg you would excuse me, my lady. I have much work to do.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she says. Then, slightly rushed, “I hope I will have the pleasure of dancing with you at the ball.”

“The pleasure will be all mine, I am sure.”

He bows, swift, and he can only hope he has not offended her as he walks away. There is a distinct downward turn to her mouth.

“Dimitri.” Sylvain re-materialises. Gives Dimitri a _look_.

“What?” Dimitri says as he gathers his own things from the table. Still watching Felix and Sir Wesley in his peripheral vision. Felix throws his hands in the air and stalks out the door, and Sir Wesley makes as if to follow before clearly thinking better of it.

_Old friends_ , he said. Yet Felix has never mentioned him before, and is not happy to see him now.

Sylvain sighs deeply. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“Why? What did I do?”

Sylvain just claps him on the arm, his smile rueful. Shakes his head, then wanders off again.

\- - -

Dimitri stumbles unexpectedly across Felix as he makes his way back to his office.

Felix has found a balcony on one of the less-frequented routes through the palace. Leans over the railing, and even with Felix’s back to him Dimitri can that see he is angry. Everything about his posture is forbidding, and Dimitri certainly did not come this way in order to chase him.

Felix is still not speaking to him, not really. His anger is not directed at Dimitri, but that does not make it Dimitri’s place to pry. Whatever is wrong, Dimitri does not want to make it worse.

He hesitates. Wonders if he should find Sylvain or Annette.

In the end, he is not given the choice. Felix looks around and sees him hovering in the corridor. He scowls, but he does not tell Dimitri to go away. For him, that is almost an invitation.

Dimitri approaches slowly, as one might approach a wildcat. He wonders what he should say. Settles on, “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Typical Felix.

Dimitri looks over the railing, following Felix’s sightline. Over the courtyard, across the grounds, and into the city beyond.

Felix shifts beside him. Shoots Dimitri a look, looks away again. Stares down at his own hands, his shoulders drawing up to his ears. As though he is uncomfortable being so close to Dimitri.

The thought is not a happy one.

“Is Sir Wesley bothering you?” Dimitri asks, because that, at least, he can do something about.

“No.”

Dimitri looks out over the city again. Forcing his eyes away from the handsome lines of Felix’s face. “You do not have to speak to me if you do not wish to, Felix. I do understand. But I can clearly see something is the matter. I would like to help you, if there is anything I can do.”

Felix huffs, “Dimitri.” Goes quiet again.

For a few long moments, they stand in silence. The tension builds, and Felix’s hands grow twitchy.

Dimitri sighs. Turns to leave. Wonders, not for the first time, how he has driven Felix so far away from him that the rift between them will never be fixed. That they will be civil but strange with each other. That Felix no longer hates him, but it is almost as if he is indifferent, and somehow that is worse.

“Ugh.” Felix scrubs a hand over his face, pushing back his loose strands of hair. “ _Fine_ , I’ll talk,” he says, as though Dimitri is twisting his arm. “Just… not here.”

Dimitri’s surprise must be written all across his face, for Felix scowls and his eyes dart away.

“All right,” Dimitri says.

They end up in Dimitri’s office. Felix throws himself into the seat in front of Dimitri’s desk. Dimitri has another moment of indecision as he tries to decide what he should do – whether he should stand, or pull up a chair beside Felix, or sit in his usual chair with the desk between them as they do when they meet king to duke.

He goes with the latter.

“I didn’t know he’d be coming here,” Felix mutters, less to Dimitri and more to his own boots. His cheeks are a dull red, and his arms are folded tightly across his chest.

“No?” Dimitri is not sure what else to say. Treads lightly, while Felix is offering information of his own free will.

“He’s such a -” Felix cuts himself off. Breathes out, and the anger on his face is all too familiar. After all, it is how he used to look at Dimitri. “He’s annoying. But his presence is clearly helping you in the meetings, so I won’t get in the way.”

“You need not suffer for my sake, Felix. I can have a word with-”

“No. It’s fine.”

Dimitri studies him. It clearly isn’t. “He said you were old friends. I take it you do not feel the same?”

Felix shoots Dimitri a withering look. Dimitri expects him to storm out then and there, but to his surprise, Felix subsides in his chair.

“We have… a history.” Felix’s tone is weighted, and his flush deepens.

Dimitri stares at him. Waiting for more, but no more comes. “Oh?”

Felix looks at him in disbelief. His face is so red the colour has even spread to his ears. Through gritted teeth, he elaborates, “We were _involved_.”

“Involved?” Dimitri repeats dumbly. Felix is looking anywhere _but_ Dimitri now, but why should he be so embarra-

Oh. _Oh. Involved_.

“I… I see,” Dimitri forces out. His chest feels oddly cold all of a sudden.

Felix’s face is turned from him, and Dimitri’s eyes trace the long length of his lashes, the sharp line of Felix’s jaw. Linger on Felix’s lips, slightly parted, and to think he and – he and Sir _Wesley_ -

Dimitri clears his throat. Forces the – whatever he is feeling deep, deep down.

“I see,” he repeats. “If you find his presence… uncomfortable I am certain we can find a way to keep you at a distance.”

Felix’s head snaps around. He meets Dimitri’s gaze dead-on, which he so rarely does, and his expression is oddly intense. “Is that all?”

Dimitri forces a smile onto his face. Hopes it does not look at painful as it feels.

“Do you require anything else from me?” Then, he realises he may have misinterpreted. “If you parted ways in an amicable fashion, then of course there is no problem. I apologise, I should not have presumed-”

“No,” Felix interjects. He slouches back into his chair. Kicks at Dimitri’s desk with his boot. “Keep that oaf away from me.”

This new bit of information jolts Dimitri in an entirely different way. Oaf? “What did he do? If he has wronged you-”

“ _No_ , just -” Felix interrupts again. “Just… leave it.”

“All right,” Dimitri says, but his mind is already whirling with possibilities. Studying Felix, as though doing so will uncover a clue.

Sir Wesley seems like a pleasant man. _Seems_. He is very charming – charming enough, perhaps, that he might be hiding a darker side underneath. Charming enough even a man like Felix could fall under his sway. There are those who make a cruel game of wooing. Those whose charm is only superficial, and acts as a disguise for a predator.

Dimitri cannot imagine Felix falling victim to a predatory type, but then, everyone has their blind spots. Even Felix, for all his pride and terse opinions, is not infallible.

Dimitri’s opinion of Sir Wesley sours dramatically.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking,” Felix says, “stop it.”

Dimitri startles. “I did not say anything.”

“I can _see_ you thinking,” Felix snaps. “I don’t need you to start – defending my honour, or whatever hare-brained idea pops into your mind.”

“Does your honour need defending?” Dimitri’s mood darkens further. What did Sir Wesley _do_?

Felix groans loudly. “ _No_ , you stupid-”

Felix cuts himself off before he can call Dimitri _boar_. Last year Dimitri asked him, rather awkwardly and after many months of consideration, to stop. He knows Felix does not mean it as the insult it used to be, but that does not stop its sting. Does not stop it reminding him acutely of the darkest time in his life. Felix, to his credit, _has_ stopped, though the habit is so ingrained he still occasionally slips up.

“It was _nothing_ , Dimitri. There’s nothing to be angry about. Just leave it alone.”

Dimitri isn’t angry, not exactly. Anger doesn’t explain the cold feeling reaching all the way down to his toes. Doesn’t explain the roiling in his stomach, or the odd tightness in his throat.

He takes a breath. “As you wish.” Another thought occurs. “You never told me you were seeing someone.”

“Because it’s none of your business,” Felix snaps.

Dimitri’s mouth snaps shut. And he knows, he _knows_ he has no right, and that Felix owes him nothing. He knows that his friendship with Felix will never be what it was when they were children.

Still, it hurts. And Dimitri is not quick enough to keep the hurt to himself. Flinches backwards before he gets his response under control. Fixes his eye on the wood of his desk, because suddenly he cannot look at Felix.

He hears Felix exhale. The sound of Felix pushing his hair roughly from his face.

“That isn’t what… I didn’t mean it like…” Felix says.

“No,” Dimitri says quickly. “No, I understand. I have no right to pry.”

He pushes his chair back abruptly. Stands and goes over to look out the window, just so he can take a moment to compose himself. So Felix cannot read his face, which Dimitri has never managed to get entirely under his control.

“ _Dimitri_ ,” Felix says, but Dimitri doesn’t know what he wants from him. All he can do is try and smooth over the cracks.

“I apologise,” Dimitri says.

He hears Felix take a deep breath – fighting down his temper, perhaps – then the sound of Felix’s own chair scraping back.

“It was just… it wasn’t anything important, all right? I’m not one to go around telling people about my private life anyway.”

Felix’s _private life_. A clear box around it. A private life, which Dimitri has no part in. Even after all this time.

“I know.”

Silence falls. A clock ticks in the corner of Dimitri’s office. A sharp inhalation of breath from Felix, as though he means to speak – then more silence.

Dimitri gets himself under control. Turns and smiles, sweeping back to his desk as though nothing has happened. “We shall keep arrangements as they are, then. My aide will be pleased. She gets very particular about these things.”

He starts moving his papers around. Ordering his notes from the day’s meeting.

Felix hovers in place, just for a moment. His hands makes a movement towards Dimitri, as though he means to reach out. Stops. Returns to his side.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Felix says. Oddly emphatic, and even without looking Dimitri can feel Felix’s eyes boring into him.

“Tomorrow.”

Another moment. Then he hears Felix’s footsteps moving across the room.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Dimitri slumps into his chair. Buries his face in his hands and lets out a shaky breath. His stomach churns, and it feels as though he has swallowed a lump of lead.

It is none of his business, he reminds himself. None of his business.

His head knows this. If only his heart would get the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger warnings: depression, self-esteem issues, self-isolation, loneliness, auditory hallucinations, mood swings.
> 
> pls note I am using an OC ex-boyfriend because I ain't gonna break up your ships. i don't do you multi-shippers dirty like that.


	2. Chapter 2

It seems like Sir Wesley is everywhere Dimitri goes.

Every time Dimitri turns around, there is Sir Wesley. Talking loudly, slinging his arms around people, laughing with his head thrown back. Carefree and dashing, and the ladies of the palace titter over him almost as much as they do over Felix.

“Good day, Your Majesty!” Sir Wesley greets whenever Dimitri passes him by.

“A fine bout, Your Majesty!” when Dimitri wins a sparring match.

“A noble horse indeed, Your Majesty!” when Dimitri mounts up, as some of the visiting nobles have expressed a desire to go riding.

No matter what Dimitri does, there is Sir Wesley, singing his praises with that never-ending enthusiasm and a flourishing bow. His moods are as golden as his hair, and even out of armour, he seems to gleam wherever he goes.

Dimitri grits his teeth and forces himself to grind out the endless mantra – “Thank you, Sir Wesley” - when gratitude is the last thing he feels.

He does not _want_ to talk to Sir Wesley. Dimitri is curt one moment then guilty the next, because what happened between Felix and Sir Wesley is not _Dimitri’s_ business. He is being churlish, for Sir Wesley is his most stalwart supporter, and he has done nothing untoward. Admittedly he is a little loud, and admittedly he wears his clothing tight enough that his biceps threaten to burst out of his shirt, but these are not fair reasons not to like the man.

But Dimitri does not like him. He does not like him at all, because he is a pathetic excuse for a king sometimes. Sir Wesley is doing him nothing but favours – his mere presence has generated more good-will between the lords and ladies than anything Dimitri has tried over the course of three full years – but Dimitri still does not like him. Looks at Sir Wesley’s bright smile and feels his heart drop into his stomach. Feels that cold feeling spreading through his veins, because while Felix does not like Sir Wesley now he must have liked him at _some_ point, because he – because they -

Dimitri does not sleep much, the next few nights. Tosses and turns and jerks awake to the kind of nightmares that drench him in cold sweat. Vivid and gory and so _real_ that he cannot stop shaking. That he gets up and paces his room, heart leaping in fright at shadows just on the edge of his vision. Whispers of things not really there.

Without sleep, the next few days of meetings turn from torture to living death. Dimitri is so tired it is physically painful, his adrenaline glands so overworked from his night terrors that his entire body is in a constant state of distress. He gets through them through sheer force of will, for he is well-practiced in ignoring physical misery. But Sir Wesley’s presence is a different misery all together. Sir Wesley talks and talks and talks, and the room adores him, and Dimitri _does not like him_. Wants nothing more than for Sir Wesley to disappear off the face of the earth just so Dimitri can sleep again.

(His nightmares are not Sir Wesley’s fault. Dimitri has them from time to time, periods where they prevent him from sleeping. Periods where his brain conjures up the worst images and torments him with them, triggered with little rhyme or reason. His nightmares have nothing to do with Sir Wesley, or Felix, or anyone else. Still. They did not start until this whole business with Sir Wesley, and no matter how irrational, part of Dimitri blames him anyway.)

Today, Dimitri can barely drag himself out of bed. Lies wrapped in his blankets with the clock steadily ticking, though it has been hours since he woke up. Hours since a particularly unpleasant nightmare jolted him from sleep, and he has not dared to close his eyes again. He does not want to get up. Does not want to face the day ahead of him.

The clock ticks on. Dimitri is the king, now and forever. He has no choice.

He forces himself out of bed and goes to splash his face in his washroom. Stares at his reflection in the mirror, at the black rings under his eyes, at his pallid skin, at the ugly, scarred pit where his eye used to be. The mark of his sins, written across his face for all to see.

Dimitri heads back into his bed chamber. Goes through the motions of getting dressed with little thought, too tired to spend the energy on worrying over his hair. He pulls on his eye patch, breeches, socks. Hesitates, though, when he goes to pick a shirt.

_Why are you dressed for a funeral?_

He picks through the endless sea of black to the white shirt at the back of his wardrobe. Reaches out to touch it, then hesitates again. He thinks of Felix’s effortless, elegant handsomeness, of Sir Wesley’s bright colours so perfectly complementing his golden hair. Thinks of the face Dimitri sees when he looks in the mirror.

The colour of his shirt is hardly going to make a difference. Cursing himself for being so foolish, Dimitri shoves the white shirt back into the depths of his wardrobe and dresses in his usual black.

\- - -

Dimitri is on his way to the gardens when the sound of hurried footsteps makes him turn around. Lord Denmar, the father of the young lady from the other night, is practically jogging along the path after him.

“Your Majesty! A beautiful morning, is it not?” The man must have been waiting for him, and is hurrying to catch up. Dimitri took a shortcut, clearly to Lord Denmar’s surprise. The man’s face is red with exertion. “I am very glad to have caught you alone, sire, before the entertainments begin.”

“Indeed.” Dimitri’s reply is delayed, and takes far too much effort to muster. Not a good sign, for he has a long day ahead of him. It does not bode well that he is already feeling as if his body and his mind are disconnected. Already fighting down a flare of irrational irritation.

“I hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you, one man to another. Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but my wife is terribly taken with you.” The lord laughs, loud and jolly and all together far too chummy. Too _forced_.

“You are too kind,” Dimitri manages.

“Nonsense, nonsense. You were very good to our Olivia the other evening. Any mother would delight in such gentlemanly attention being shown her daughter.” No good deed goes unpunished, it seems. “My wife practically begged me for the pleasure of your company this morning.”

Lord Denmar goes quiet, awaiting a reply. But Dimitri has nothing to say to that - nothing civil, anyway. He forces himself to focus on his breathing rather than risk saying something that might cause offence. It is harder than it should be. Lord Denmar’s eyes gleam with foolish schemes and ambition.

The silences stretches on. Eventually, the lord fills it. “Olivia is also eager to know you better, sire. She would never be so forward, of course - you know how modest young ladies can be. Her older sisters are both engaged to be married, but Olivia has little experience of men. She is a sweet girl. Very docile. Very agreeable.”

Dimitri knows this. Knows, at least, that her terror of him rendered her near silent, whatever her father’s aspirations. Denmar is not the first lord to try and force his daughter into Dimitri’s path. Undoubtedly, he will not be the last.

Normally, Dimitri would brush it off. He has had a lifetime of people latching onto him in their own ambition. Many parents are besotted with the idea of their children ascending to the throne, never mind who happens to be seated beside them. But Olivia… she _is_ a sweet girl, surely no older than seventeen. Still a child. And everyone in Fódlan knows Dimitri is a violent man. Knows the bloody path he cleaved for his throne, yet for status Lord Denmar would hand the poor girl over to him like a head of cattle.

For a moment, Dimitri is angry. Far more angry than he should be, something inside him tipping over.

“I pity your daughter, Denmar.” The worlds leave Dimitri in a low growl. Vicious, and he can see the way Lord Denmar flinches back, the shock marring the man’s features.

“Sire?”

For a moment, Dimitri wrestles with himself. He knows, he _knows_ he is overreacting. Is unslept and irrational and his judgment is impaired. But the anger is real and visceral, clawing at his insides, and if he could let go, just this _once_ -

Dimitri takes a breath, then another. Forces the anger down, down, down. It is like swallowing acid.

“I am sure she has many admirers.” His voice is a better approximation of polite. “I fear a man with my history is not the best entertainment for young ladies, my lord.”

“You are too humble, sire,” Lord Denmar says. Apparently back on safer ground, he launches into a long list of his daughter’s other virtues. Most of which, when it comes to it, boil down to _obedience_.

Dimitri tunes him out. Focuses on quelling the irritation still simmering in his gut. He thinks of Felix, his amber eyes piercing and his jaw stubborn. Thinks of Felix’s temper, his sharp tongue, his independence. Ferocious and brutal in his honesty, unwavering in the pursuit of his goals. He thinks of Felix’s refusal to back down, from anything and anyone, when Felix believes he is right.

He thinks of Felix’s rare smiles, of the way his hair falls around his face when he has been riding. Thinks of the brisk nod of Felix’s head when he approves of something, the twitch of his lips when Felix is disguising amusement. Dimitri thinks of the way Felix looked on the night of the concert, illuminated by the lights from the stage with the music playing so sweet and melancholy.

The melody is out of the reach of Dimitri’s memory. Teasing around the edges of his mind. He needs to hear it again, with an urgency that does not entirely make sense even within his own mind.

Lord Denmar is still talking, sycophantic, but Dimitri thinks of the music.

He is able to shake off Lord Denmar when they reach the rose garden. There are no meetings today, but a garden party. Dimitri’s aides insisted upon it – a summit cannot be all business, and must provide opportunities for social connections too. Dimitri sees the wisdom of it, tempting as it is to about-face and run off in the other direction.

It is early, but the garden is already thronged with people. Some are admiring the spring flowers, others lamenting the lingering chill in the air. It is still early in the year – surely it should not be a surprise.

Dimitri wants nothing more than to go back to his chambers and climb into his bed again, fruitless as sleeping proves to be. But he forces down his lingering irritability, pastes on his best approximation of good humour and moves amongst his guests. Fills his mouth with the kind of small talk he barely remembers afterwards - the roses are lovely, the day will warm up soon, thank goodness winter is finally over. The same script on repeat.

True to Lord Denmar’s threats, Lady Denmar pulls Dimitri over to her daughter as soon as she is able, hinting unsubtly all the while. Her parents make some flimsy excuses to leave them alone together – Lord Denmar even has the gall to _wink_ at Dimitri, and it is all he can do to bite his tongue. The girl’s face is so red she looks as though she might spontaneously combust. She cannot bear to look at him, her hands twisting the fabric of her skirts.

Dimitri softens, almost in spite of himself. She really is just a girl. Her parents are not her fault, nor is Dimitri’s ill temper. It would be unfair of him to be unkind to her. Confronted with her agonising shyness, though, Dimitri is unsure what to say to her. Still battling his own bad mood, and slow thinking because of it.

He is casting around for a topic when he spies a familiar head of red hair in the crowd. For a moment he thinks he is mistaken - surely Annette should be teaching at this hour. But when she moves closer, there is no mistaking her.

“Annette!”

Annette turns. It takes her a moment to locate him, but when she does her face lights up in a smile.

“Your Majesty!” She hustles over to him, dropping into a quick curtsy. Clearly getting it out of the way, because she bounces upright again and starts craning her head around the crowd. Looking for someone, though she is too little so see over any heads.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Dimitri says. “I was not expecting to see you this morning.”

“Felix wants me. Have you seen him?” Annette bites at her lip as she looks around, uncharacteristically subdued. Concerned, Dimitri thinks, and suddenly his sluggish mind races.

Felix wants her. Why? Because of Sir Wesley? The matter must be serious, then, if he has called on Annette for support. Even though he will barely speak to Dimitri, about this or anything else. Dimitri has not even _seen_ him this morning, and-

Later. This is not helping. Dimitri will deal with those feelings later, though this surge is even harder to force down than the last.

None of his business, he reminds himself. Felix has every right to keep his distance. Just breathe.

“I confess I have not,” Dimitri says as mildly as he can manage. He does, he thinks, a good job of it. Then he remembers that they have an audience, and is even gladder for his restraint. “Annette, may I introduce you to Lady Olivia?”

Annette starts, as though she did not realise anyone else was there. When she sees the young lady, though, her face warms immediately. While Dimitri has a soft spot for children, Annette positively adores young people of all ages. She, at least, will know what to say to the girl.

“Annette is the prize instructor as the Royal School of Sorcery,” Dimitri says. “And an old friend of mine.”

Annette swats his arm, but she is smiling. “You don’t have to flatter me.” Then, to Lady Olivia, “It’s lovely to meet you!”

“And you. I am honoured to meet a friend of the king’s,” Lady Olivia says. No stammer, and noticeably easier now she is speaking to Annette. But then, Annette has that way with young people – with all people, if he is honest. She is a bright spark of joy wherever she goes.

Lady Olivia’s eyes flick back to Dimitri, just briefly, then she flushes and ducks her head.

“Lady Olivia enjoys painting,” Dimitri says. “I was just about to tell her of our gallery here in the palace.”

The thought only just occurred to him, but it seems as good an idea as any.

“Oh, you _must_ see it,” Annette says. “There’s some very beautiful artwork, and a very dashing portrait of His Majesty.”

Dimitri bites down a groan in the nick of time. He _hates_ that painting, and the knowledge of its existence is deeply embarrassing. Still, that feeling is a private thing. He should certainly not complain about it in his present company.

Lady Olivia blushes deeper. Her hand flits to her hair, and she is grinding her toe into the dirt. Her eyes keep darting up to Dimitri then away again.

“I should be delighted to s-see a portrait of His M-Majesty.”

There is her stammer again.

“There is no need,” Dimitri assures her. He certainly does not want to oblige her to go and see it. He would rather nobody saw it, ever.

“It’s very good,” Annette says. She shoots Dimitri an impish look, then leans in to speak to the girl. “His Majesty cuts a fine figure in his armour.”

The girl makes a squeaking noise, then blanches in mortification. She fixes her gaze once more on her shoes. Annette nudges Dimitri’s side. Clearly meaning to share a joke, but Dimitri has no idea what she means, or why she would find Lady Olivia’s nervousness around him funny.

Annette must see his lack of comprehension in his face. For a moment she looks torn between exasperation and fondness. Reaches out, somewhat inexplicably, to swat Dimitri’s arm again before she takes pity on the poor young lady.

“I’m starving,” Annette announces. “I don’t suppose you could show me where the food is, Lady Olivia?”

The girl takes the out gratefully. Curtsies, casting Dimitri another one of those darting looks, then leads Annette away. Annette reaches out for her as they go, squeezing an arm around the girl’s shoulders. Quite literally taking the girl under her wing. Kind, always kind, as though it is easy.

Dimitri goes back to his duty. Talking, endless talking. Lunch, then an afternoon of croquet, which Dimitri has never seen the point in. But he has to pretend. Swing his stupid mallet and clap politely when other people do the same.

He wants so badly to sleep. To ease the dull pounding in his head and the tension in his chest, the persistent feeling of irritation that simmers just below the surface. It is a constant, niggling discomfort, and he has to watch every word that leaves his mouth.

He forces himself through one round of croquet, then cries off the next with the excuse of needing a drink. He hovers by the table for far too long. Nominally listening to an elderly countess, but mainly just nodding along while his mind wanders, spinning his croquet mallet idly between his fingers.

As his eyes rove, he finally spots Felix, over on the edge of the rose garden, striding out of the surrounding trees. Walking swiftly, the sun shining off his dark hair. The light brings out the stark definition of his features, sharp and dangerous and untouchable. It takes Dimitri a moment to remember that he needs to breathe - sometimes, just seeing Felix is a punch to the gut.

Annette bursts into view a moment after. Hurrying after Felix, chasing him. Her hands fly around her face and Dimitri can see her mouth moving. Clearly trying to reason with Felix, even as he stalks away.

Dimitri takes a step towards them before he remembers himself. Hesitates, wondering what he should do. He is used to Felix’s anger. Knows it well, after all, and Annette is too sweet to weather the worst of Felix’s temper alone. Dimitri can handle him. Perhaps Dimitri could -

The thought dies a moment later. Sir Wesley appears from another direction, and Felix stops dead.

For a moment, they are oddly frozen in time. A picture frame – Annette, Felix, Sir Wesley - caught in a moment of flight. Felix half running, Annette reaching for him, Sir Wesley’s presence stopping them both dead.

The moment is broken when Sir Wesley moves. He walks forward slowly, almost cautiously. Bows, with a hand placed over his heart. Felix does not bow back, his arms folded tightly over his chest. Sir Wesley gestures along the pathway, clearly inviting Felix to walk with him.

Felix’s initial refusal is obvious. He whirls away, but stops again when he sees Annette blocking his path. She says something and slowly, ever so slowly, Felix turns back. Stares at Sir Wesley. Raises his chin, proud as ever, but inclines his head. Capitulates. _Goes with him_ , falling into step side by side and leaving Annette behind.

Dimitri’s croquet mallet snaps. The sound of it startles him and he looks down to find its handle broken clean in two. Looks up, and Felix and Sir Wesley are gone.

\- - -

Dimitri returns to his chambers long after dinner, when the night is dark and he is finally, finally free of obligation.

Tonight, he is so tired that his feet drag behind him as he crosses the threshold. It is the worst kind of tiredness, his body like lead but his mind racing a mile a minute. His bad temper has given way at last, but in its place comes melancholy. Memories dancing around the corners of his mind. Memories he does not want to relive.

There is a rushing noise in his ears. Hissing, whispers, just outside the reach of his understanding. Too quiet to understand what they are saying. They will not stay so forever.

Dimitri undresses as soon as he closes the door behind him. He strips down until he is only in his shirt and breeches, dumping his finery on the floor even though he knows he should pick it up. Should at least put it on a chair.

His eye patch is the only thing he is careful with. He pulls it off, setting it on his dresser. Misplacing it is worse than an annoyance – he cannot leave his chambers without it. The scarring underneath is too abhorrent.

It is late. He is so tired, but he already knows he will not sleep, not with the whispers. They will grow louder and louder. He can feel unwelcome thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. His breathing is coming too fast, and the pressure on his chest is suffocating. He wants - he needs -

Dimitri sits down at the piano. Plays a scale with his right hand, focusing on that, focusing on the noise of it. Filling the holes and empty spaces in his head.

It helps. It is never enough, but it helps.

He takes a few deep, long breaths as his right hand moves up the piano. Opens his songbook with the left. Picks something easy and familiar and begins to play. Plays the next song, and the next. When his breathing steadies, he skips ahead in the book to something more difficult. Something that requires more focus, that challenges his fledgling ability to read music.

He makes mistakes. Leans in to check notes – D, not F. He is still learning the upper part of the stave, still cannot read it precisely. Corrects himself. Tries again, slow and steady.

Slowly, slowly, Dimitri calms.

It is strange – Dimitri has never much cared for music. He picked up the hobby unexpectedly. In the early days of his kingship, the silence of his chambers choked him. He filled every moment of the day with work, but every night he would return, physically and mentally exhausted, to his empty rooms. Every night he would stand by the window when he could not sleep. Books could not hold his attention. Memories were too painful. The darkness outside was complete, and the silence within grew unbearable. He worked all day, and at night he retreated to… nothing. Emptiness. Maddening, unrelenting silence.

Silence is dangerous for Dimitri. It fosters the dark whispers lurking, always lurking, in the corners of his mind. Telling him things that should go unspoken. Making him hear things that are not there.

The piano fills the silence, if nothing else.

A knock at the door startles him out of his practice. His fingers still on the keys, and he stares at the door. Wondering, for a moment, if he imagined it, for his mind likes to play tricks on him.

Slowly, he stands. Crosses the room, the carpet soft beneath his bare feet, and pulls it open, expecting to find the space in front empty.

Felix is the last person he expects to see. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting everywhere but Dimitri’s face. “Can I come in?”

Dimitri… does not know what to do. Stares at Felix dumbly, unable to reconcile his unexpected appearance here when Dimitri has not spoken to him all day. The moment grows awkward, and Dimitri jolts himself out of it. He nods, mute, and steps back to let Felix enter.

Felix’s eyes flit upwards as he passes. They stop. Linger on Dimitri’s face, and only then does Dimitri remember the state he is in. Hardly dressed, dirty clothes strewn across his floor, and he is _not wearing his eye patch_.

He hurries to his dresser, pulling it back on. Rushes to pick up his dirty clothes and put them in the basket like a civilised person. He looks down at himself, tugging awkwardly at his shirt, which is showing rather too much of his chest for company.

His breathing is ragged and shaky. He steadies himself, using the excuse of tidying to take a few deep, gulping breaths. Turns to Felix when he thinks he has himself under control.

Felix is not looking at him. Felix is staring about his room, taking in the bookshelves and comfortable furniture and the door leading off to Dimitri’s private washroom. Gaze lingering on Dimitri’s piano, with his still-open songbook and the assortment of miscellaneous books and papers strewn across the top of it that Dimitri has yet to organise.

Felix has not been in here… ever, now that Dimitri thinks of it. They meet in his office, or out on the grounds. Felix has never come into Dimitri’s private chambers.

He is at the piano now. Running his gloved fingers over the top of it. Reaching down to press a single key.

“Why do you have a piano?” Felix asks.

Dimitri cringes, and he can feel heat rush to his cheeks. Embarrassed, even though he knows there is nothing shameful about music. It is oddly… personal, all the same. A part of Dimitri that exists only inside these walls, that exists only for himself.

“I have been… learning to play,” Dimitri says, stilted even to his own ears.

“Huh. I didn’t think-” Felix, in the process of turning back to Dimitri, stops mid-sentence. Stares at Dimitri’s face again, at his eye patch. “You didn’t have to…”

For once, Dimitri looks away first.

“I apologise for not receiving you properly,” he says, falling back on long years of his manners being drilled into his head. “I was not expecting guests. Would you like a drink?”

Felix is quiet a moment. “There’s no need to be so formal, Dimitri.”

There is every need – formality is all Dimitri has. The only lifeline in this unexpected incursion into his private space, into his most private moments and dark thoughts.

Felix does not need to know. Would not want to know, even if Dimitri wanted to tell him. If Dimitri cannot be charming, at least he can try for composure.

“Would you like to sit down?” Dimitri gestures towards the armchairs by the bookshelves.

“I… thank you.”

They sit. Neither looking at each other. Both quiet.

Dimitri takes a breath. “I apologise for my attire. I was not expecting company, or I would-”

“It’s fine, Dimitri.”

But Dimitri can see Felix is uncomfortable in the way his eyes flit over Dimitri bare neck and collarbones, still too exposed for either of their liking. Felix’s eyes snap away again, his cheeks once more a dull red.

“I, uh…” Felix shifts in his seat. Clears his throat. “It’s late. I… shouldn’t have called on you unexpectedly.”

The words sound wrong coming from Felix. Felix, who has never paid any attention to etiquette in his life, grinding out social niceties like they cause him physical pain.

“I am always happy to see you.” Dimitri does not know what it says about the state of their relationship that saying so makes Felix even _more_ tense.

Felix’s eyes rove the room. Pause on Dimitri’s bare feet, and Dimitri fights the impulse to curl them up under his body. Felix’s eyes move on. Linger once more on Dimitri’s piano.

“I didn’t know you liked music.”

He says it softly, softer than Dimitri has seen him in a long time. Low, almost intimate. Here in the late hours of night, he does not seem so sharp and forbidding. Candlelight bathes his striking features with a soft glow, gentling them. Bringing out the hollows in his cheeks, the tiredness of his eyes, the vulnerable parts of Felix never seen in the harsh light of day. Some of his hair has fallen out of place, and for a moment Dimitri can imagine reaching out, brushing it back…

It is only for a moment.

“Everyone likes music.”

“Play something for me?” Felix says. His eyes are so strikingly, startlingly amber. Looking right at Dimitri and _asking_ , which is so rare that for a moment, Dimitri thinks he could give him anything.

Unbidden, Sir Wesley’s image swims into Dimitri’s mind. Dashing and gallant, with effortless charm. He thinks of Felix and Sir Wesley walking off into the rose garden together. Thinks of how he plays. Clunky and clumsy, the furthest thing from beautiful. Nothing worth listening to.

“I am still learning. I would rather not, if it is all the same to you.”

Felix’s eyes flit away when he nods. The loss of them is both pain and relief, as is Felix’s easy acceptance. He knows Felix – he acquiesces only because he is speaking to Dimitri. If it were Sylvain, or Annette, or even Ingrid, Felix would not have rested until he heard them play.

Felix would not be sitting across from them now, awkward and distant, his uncertainty clear on his face.

“I’m here to… Well, Annette said…” Felix trails off.

“Yes?” Dimitri says, when more is not forthcoming.

Felix shifts in his chair. Stares at the piano again, his brows furrowed. “I… didn’t get much time to speak with you today.”

“You were busy,” Dimitri responds mechanically. Knowing full well that Felix could have spoken to him at any point if he really wanted to.

Felix shakes his head. Heaves a sigh. “I’m not here all the time, and I’ve been pre-occupied. I wanted to” - a brief pause, Felix wrapping his tongue around words that do not come naturally to him - “catch up.”

“You have many friends to see, Felix. I take no offence.”

“I know you don’t. But I – you know.” Felix’s eyes bore into him, willing him into understanding. Felix often does this. Says half a sentence then looks at Dimitri expectantly, waiting for him to catch his meaning.

Dimitri used to be good at it. Not any more.

“I understand, Felix,” Dimitri says. Then, before he can stop himself, “You were busy with Sir Wesley.”

He knows it is the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth. Felix’s face shutters. Any hint of softness vanishes.

Dimitri knows better than to push. He _knows better_. Why did he say that?

“You’re tired,” Felix says, standing abruptly. “I won’t keep you up.”

“Not at all,” Dimitri says, even though it is far too late. Felix’s contemplative mood is long gone. He is already heading for the door. “I am not sleeping anyway.”

Dimitri does not know why that, of all things, makes Felix pause. Felix turns, almost reluctantly, and his eyes flick once more over Dimitri’s face. For a moment, his expression is… strange. Then comes the anger, which Dimitri can read very well – it is, after all, Felix’s way.

“You need to take care of yourself,” Felix snaps. “You’re going to make yourself sick again, and the last thing we need is you dying some stupid death due to your own stubbornness. I’m not rushing to your bedside if you work yourself half to death again.”

Felix _did_ rush to his bedside last year when he got sick. Stayed for well over a month and handled the kingdom for him, when Dimitri was delirious with fever. Between him and Dedue, they were able to keep the kingdom from falling into disarray while Dimitri recuperated.

It was quite a fever. He does not remember much, though he distinctly remembers Felix’s ferocious temper and numerous threats to kill Dimitri himself when Dimitri was finally lucid again.

Dimitri is so tired. All he can think of is that they are almost acting like their old selves again. Felix, caustic and ill-tempered but caring in his own strange way. Angry with Dimitri, not because of Dimitri himself, but because he worries for him. 

And Dimitri… he has no more words, not right now. Is too tired, or melancholy, or… something else. He traces his eye over the fine lines of Felix’s face. Holds Felix’s amber eyes until Felix jerks his gaze away, not quite quick enough to hide his flush.

Felix has never liked direct eye contact. With eyes like his, though, Dimitri cannot help but stare sometimes. 

“Get some sleep,” Felix mutters. Walks over to the door. Pauses again when his hand is on the handle, looking over his shoulder with his brow furrowed.

Of course. He is expecting a reply, naturally he is. Dimitri has let his mask drop too far. Sometimes he does not want to speak – what is the point of it, after all - but he has to. He has to.

“Good night, Felix,” Dimitri murmurs.

He does not understand the look that passes over Felix’s face then. As though Felix is almost… in pain.

“Good night,” Felix says, gruff, then stalks out.

Dimitri stays where he is for a time. Breathing, resting. Then he gets up and locks the door again. Takes off his eye patch and sets it in its place back on his dresser.

He can still hear the whispers. Still feel the nightmares lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for him.

He looks at his bed. Having spent all day longing for it, he suddenly cannot bear the thought of being in it. Cannot stomach the terrors that will come to him in his sleep.

Dimitri goes back to his piano. Plays on, song after song, and in his mind’s eye he can see Felix roaming his chambers, running his fingers over the piano. He can almost imagine Felix standing by the piano stool, so close Dimitri can feel the warmth of him, listening to him play.

In his imagination, Dimitri does not drive him away.

Dimitri pauses. Pulls a scrap of paper towards him and pens a note to his piano tutor. He wants to play the music from the concert. Wants to fill the emptiness of his chambers with that melody.

He does not know its name. But in the privacy of his mind, he thinks of it as _Felix’s song_.

\- - -

The next time they speak alone, it is days later, and Felix storms over to Dimitri in a fit of temper.

“That Lord Denmar,” he snarls without preamble, “just told me to _mind myself_ around him, lest I fall out of your favour!”

They are at yet another social function. Post-dinner drinks and mingling while a small band of string instrumentalists plays in the corner. Dimitri pauses with his glass halfway to his mouth, trying to make sense of what Felix just said to him.

It is harder than it should be. Much as Dimitri dislikes Felix being angry with him, there is a part of his mind that cannot help but notice how good anger looks on him. How handsome Felix is when his eyes flash.

“What?” is Dimitri’s eloquent response.

“That’s exactly what I said,” Felix says. “What have you been saying to the man? He’s over there going on about how _close_ you are.”

Dimitri shuts his eye. Takes a moment to breathe. “Ah. I see.”

Lord Denmar really is the worst kind of man. Grasping and grabbing, simply because Dimitri has shown basic kindness to his daughter.

“Explain yourself,” Felix growls. He is so angry that whatever Denmar said, it must truly have offended him.

“Peace, Felix,” Dimitri says, leaning in so only Felix can hear him. “He is clawing for power, nothing more. I assure you I have showed him no favour or made any promises. I assisted his daughter, that is all.”

Felix’s eyes are narrow, studying Dimitri’s face. “You assisted her.”

Dimitri knows better than to try and talk around the truth. Felix is giving him one of those looks, like he buys exactly none of Dimitri's nonsense. Dimitri heaves a sigh. “Lord Denmar is quite keen on the idea of marriage, I think.”

Something in Felix’s jaw spasms. His fury darkens, and Dimitri leans back instinctively.

“She is a sweet girl,” Dimitri continues hurriedly. The last thing he wants is for Felix to terrorise her. “Whoever her parents may be. I would be remiss in my duties if I left young ladies unattended, and she is only young.”

He gestures subtly to where she stands over on the other side of the room. With her sisters tonight, and perfectly composed when she is out of his company. Felix follows the line of his finger. Is still for a long moment.

“Have you… made her any promises?” Felix says, oddly quiet. His head whips back around, his eyes narrowing again. “Not that I care. I just don’t want to see the kingdom run into the dirt by the likes of Denmar. He’s an idiot.”

“I have no plans for marriage. You are my advisor, besides – I would tell you if I did.”

Felix nods. Deflates somewhat, now he is sure they are on the same side. Without anger to carry him through, without the clearly-defined roles of king and scolding advisor, the blanket of awkwardness settles over them again. Felix looks away from Dimitri, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, folding his arms over his chest.

“You’ll have to be married at some point, I suppose,” he mutters. He does not look happy at the prospect.

Dimitri shrugs. “I have not really thought about it.”

Felix looks incredulous. “You’re the _king_ , Dimitri. You have to have an heir. What do you think will happen if you die?”

“You managed the kingdom well enough in my stead. If I died, it would not make too much of a difference,” Dimitri says. He means to placate him. He does not mean for Felix to look, all of a sudden, so upset.

For a moment, Felix’s mouth works without sound coming out. He looks almost as if Dimitri has struck him. Then his glare snaps back into place.

“You’re impossible,” Felix snarls. And just like that he whirls away, storming off into the crowd before Dimitri can breathe so much as another word.

Dimitri wants to follow him. Does not understand what he did, but knows he did _something_ for Felix to have looked at him like that. Once again he is on the back foot, baffled by the see-saw that is his relationship with Felix, always out of balance one way or the other. He is distracted, though, by a sudden burst of laughter from the centre of the room. It is Sir Wesley, of course. Drawing in a crowd as he tells one of his tales.

A group of ladies to Dimitri’s right titters.

“He’s so charming!”

“Look at his _shoulders_.”

“He’s very handsome. He’s almost a match for Duke Fraldarius.” At that, the ladies all break out into a sea of giggles.

A match for Felix. Dimitri stands frozen in the middle of the room, the phrase turning over and over in his head. Jerks himself back into the present and tries to find Felix, but Felix studiously avoids him. Slips out of reach whenever Dimitri draws near, and later Dimitri spies him over in a corner, leaning against the wall with his noise pointed upwards as the ever-present Sir Wesley tries his charms on him. Leaning in, golden and charming and _handsome_ , so handsome he gets the ladies giggling. Felix does not look any more impressed than he usually does, but Felix must think him handsome too, because they...

It occurs to Dimitri, rather suddenly, that he has never heard anyone giggling about _him_.

Later, Dimitri forces himself to look in the mirror. To really _look_ , not just at his scars but at the sum of him. His shaggy hair, the lines on his face he never noticed before. The sun-spots and freckles from the years he spent mad and wandering. The black ring under his dull blue eye.

His gaze trails down further, down his bare chest. He has always known his body as a tool, a weapon. He has lived years of hunger and pain and misery, where its nagging needs were a weakness and little else. He has used its raw strength to kill again and again. He has never thought of it in terms of… well, being _desired_.

Now, though, he takes in the full scope of his scarring. Takes in the shape of his torso - he is still muscular, still trains regularly, but he spends a lot of time seated too. Some of him ripples with hard muscle, some of him is soft, and some of him is marred by thick, ugly scar tissue.

Sir Wesley is not like that. His clothing fits so tight his physique is on plain display, broad and hulking at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, his biceps straining to squeeze into his undershirt. Felix is not like that either, lither and slighter in every respect, much like a panther is to a bear. He is sleek, graceful, and though his physique is more compact every part of him is whip-cord muscle. He turns heads everywhere he goes, without even trying.

And Dimitri is… this. He turns from the mirror. No surprises, then, that he hears no giggling when _he_ walks by.

He was not lying when he told Felix he had not thought of marriage. He is so busy, and he struggles to think of his future at the best of times - it is a blank slate, a black hole, a terrifying leap into the unknown. But Dimitri has a duty. Some day he will be married, because he is a king and that is what kings do. But other than his rank, what does Dimitri have to offer as a husband?

His nightmares still haunt him. He is almost late to the meeting the next morning, dragging himself into the meeting room just in time. He sits down at the head of the table, and Sir Wesley is already talking, entertaining the room at large with tales of his exploits as a knight and long complimentary tangents about his audience’s respective territories, families, and interests. Adored and admired by the room at large. ( _A match for Duke Fraldarius_.)

Felix leans towards Dimitri. Says, frowning, “You look terrible.”

Dimitri feels his mouth twist. Dimitri is not handsome, or charming, or capable of captivating a whole room of people with anecdotes. But he is a king. He can lead, if nothing else.

He does not reply. Claps his hands together, and the room goes quiet.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says. “Let us begin where we left off yesterday.”

He can feel Felix watching him during the meeting, but Dimitri has nothing to say to him. Has nothing to say to anyone, really. When he speaks it is brief and to the point.

He wants to sleep. Wants to play his piano. Wants things between him and Felix to be easy again, as it was when they were children. He wants to go home - a nonsensical desire, a longing that makes little sense. Dimitri is home, yet he yearns for something more. Yearns for a peace he never feels, even in his sleep.

Dimitri looks at Felix, and he wants.

But Dimitri is a king. It is all he is, all he has. He has no business wanting.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dimitri! Just the man I was looking for.”

Dimitri looks up from his paperwork. Sylvain leans in the doorway, casual as ever, but the grin on his face is a surprise. Today’s meetings have only just finished, and the last one was a nightmare. Not even Sir Wesley’s charms could stop the bi-annual shouting match between Countess Hestia and Earl Effring. They managed to antagonise near half of the room along with them, this time, and Dimitri’s head is still aching.

“You found me,” Dimitri replies.

Sylvain shuts the door behind him. He sits down in front of Dimitri’s desk, and how he manages to sprawl elegantly in the stiff wooden chair is anyone’s guess.

“Working still?”

Dimitri expects to work well into the night. His other duties do not let up just because of a trade summit. “Do you need me for something?”

“I don’t _need_ anything,” Sylvain says. “We just haven’t had the chance to spend some quality time yet.”

He is right, of course he is. Dimitri feels a pang of guilt. “I apologise, Sylvain. I am delighted to see you – all of you. There is just so much to do, and-”

Sylvain waves him away. “I didn’t come here to complain at you. I came to take you out.”

There is something both familiar and deeply worrying about the look on Sylvain’s face. Dimitri sets down his quill slowly. Takes in the gleam in Sylvain’s eye, as if he knows something funny that Dimitri does not.

“What are you up to this time?”

“So suspicious, Your Majesty!” Sylvain says, though his roguish grin does little to assuage Dimitri’s doubts. “When have I ever led you astray? Nothing wrong with two old friends having a night on the town.”

Sylvain has led Dimitri astray many times, but fortunately he is as good at talking himself out of trouble as he is at getting into it. And he is right – he and Dimitri have not gone out together in a long time. Sylvain comes to Dimitri’s office and they talk about work, for he is one of Dimitri’s key advisors, but Dimitri has little time for purely social visits. Sylvain is asking, and Dimitri really should oblige.

But Dimitri looks down at his desk, at the veritable mountain of paperwork awaiting his perusal, and cold reality seeps in.

“Sylvain, I really am busy.”

Sylvain leans so far back in his chair that it threatens to topple over, rocking it back and forth on two legs like a schoolboy.

“Come on, Dimitri,” he wheedles. “You could stand to let your hair down a bit. I’ve found us some quality entertainment, too.”

That raises an immediate red flag. Any ‘entertainment’ chosen by Sylvain is likely to be dubious at best. “Sylvain.”

Sylvain throws up his hands in a placating gesture. It is a small miracle he does not fall backwards. “Nothing scandalous! I know you have your reputation to uphold. Just a quiet night of theatre and companionship, that’s all.”

Dimitri should say no. Should go back to his work. Instead, his mind unhelpfully fixates on the word _reputation_.

People do not giggle when Dimitri walks by. But he does not know what they _do_ think, and all of a sudden he has the desperate urge to find out. He knows he is not handsome. Knows he is not charming like Sir Wesley, or endearing like Annette, or striking like Felix. But… what _is_ he, in the eyes of his friends and his people?

He should not rightly care. He is the king, after all, and caring for such petty matters is a weakness. He should certainly not display it, but…

This is Sylvain. They have known each other for years, ever since they were little. Sylvain has seen Dimitri at his worst (not to mention his most embarrassing), and has never breathed a word outside their immediate circle. Surely, if Dimitri can ask anyone in the world, he can ask him.

“What is my reputation?” he says. Tries to make it casual, playing with his quill and carefully avoiding Sylvain’s eyes.

Sylvain is quiet just a beat too long. Dimitri’s heart freezes in his chest. It must be terrible, then. Mortification sweeps over him, and he regrets ever even _thinking_ the question, let alone voicing it, but-

“Dimitri, my friend, you _really_ need a night off if you have to ask me that,” Sylvain says. “I’ll make you a deal. Come out with me and I’ll tell you, with all the sordid details and saucy gossip.”

Dimitri reel back in shock - _sordid details?_ \- and it takes him a moment to realise that Sylvain is teasing him. Sylvain slaps his own thigh and positively howls with laughter. Taking too much pleasure from his own stupid joke.

Dimitri heaves a sigh. The tension in his chest uncoils, just a little. “Why must you be this way?”

It is a question he has asked before. Not one he expects a reply to.

Sylvain shakes his head. He lets his chair drop back onto all four legs, still looking heartily amused at Dimitri’s expense. “Get your cloak on, we’re going to be late.”

He stands. And though his smile does not waver, there is steel in his eyes. A sharpness Dimitri does not usually associate with Sylvain. Insistence.

Dimitri does not know why Sylvain is being so stubborn about this of all things. For a moment they stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Dimitri has to work, _should_ be working. He has so many documents to read and sign off on, letters to reply to, and notes to revise for tomorrow’s round of meetings.

The guilt wins out. The knowledge that his friends have to _fight him_ for his time. Sylvain is reaching out, and Dimitri can give him this, at the very least.

Dimitri stands and pulls on his cloak, trying to ignore the burst of anxiety in his gut. He is leaving his work to pile up. He does not know where they are going. He is not prepared for a night out – did not have the time to mentally ready himself - and he feels the furthest thing from sociable. He does not know what to _say_ to Sylvain, does not know how to be what they were, and surely Sylvain will expect -

Just breathe, he reminds himself. It is one night. He owes Sylvain this much, even if he is unsure what to say to him. None of Dimitri’s work is urgent, and he will have plenty of time once the summit is over to get it back under control. He can do this.

Logic does little to stem the anxiety. But Dimitri squares his shoulders and goes anyway.

Their plan for the evening ends up being surprisingly tame, given that it was organised entirely by Sylvain. He has arranged a private booth at a small local venue, and clearly forewarned the owners that the king will be in attendance tonight. Presumptuous, but seeing as he got his way, hardly inaccurate. The owners bow Dimitri rather nervously into the booth and serve him and Sylvain personally, though Dimitri is sure their other staff are perfectly capable of carrying food and drink to their table.

“Thank you so much,” Sylvain says, giving them his most charming smile. “We’d like not to be disturbed during the performance, if you’d be so kind.”

From his lips, the words manage to sound warm and friendly, even though the instruction is clear. The owners assure them they will be left alone, bow in the confused way of people not required to do so often and hazy on the etiquette, and leave them to their own devices.

“Good service, here,” Sylvain tells Dimitri, helping himself to the platter on the table.

They are surprisingly well-concealed in the booth Sylvain has chosen. Nobody looks twice at them. Dimitri lets himself breathe in the gentle hubbub of excitement, of ordinary people out to see a show with no noble pretensions or any ambitions beyond having fun.

It is… a good feeling. Dimitri usually dislikes crowds, but he is sequestered away enough that he does not mind this one. Likes the sound of their talk and laughter, so unrestrained and unselfconscious. A sharp contrast to the stiff formality of palace social events.

Like this, Dimitri is just like any other person. Out for an evening with a friend, with no other expectations placed upon him. He shrugs off his cloak. After a moment’s hesitation, he decides to go all in. Pulls off his gloves, rolls up his sleeves and leans his elbows against the table.

“There he is!” Sylvain crows around a mouthful of cheese. “Better already.”

For a moment, it is tempting for Dimitri to roll his eye at him. To slip back into their boyhood antics, the insolent camaraderie of two young men. But sleeves up or not, Dimitri is who he is. A far cry from the boy he used to be. He does not have the luxury of insolence, not anymore.

Dimitri often has these moments. Moments where he feels caught between the past and the present, unsure how to react. Moments where even the smallest of actions are worth second-guessing.

“What are we here for, exactly?” Dimitri asks.

Sylvain winks at him. “You’ll see.”

Dimitri quirks a brow, but lets it drop. If Sylvain is in one of _those_ moods, there is no point in asking again.

The question of his reputation, though… Now it has occurred to him, he cannot let it go. He runs his finger along a groove in the table, weighing his words. He is certain he will be embarrassed about it tomorrow, but… “As for my earlier question?”

“Your reputation?” Sylvain says, and Dimitri nods. “Later.”

Dimitri’s finger pauses. He looks up at Sylvain, who is sprawling elegantly across their booth, taking up as much space as is physically possible. Easy, relaxed. His eyes, though, are still too sharp. They search Dimitri’s face, and Dimitri has to look away.

“I believe we made a deal,” Dimitri reminds him. His tone is light. As though he, too, is easy.

“Shush, the show’s starting,” is Sylvain’s only reply.

The show, Dimitri discovers, is a varietal performance by a small troupe of travelling actors. Comic skits, for the most part, many of them rather saucier than Dimitri is accustomed to. He can feel his face heat at several points during the performance and fights the impulse to cover his eye with his hand. He is a king, he is supposed to sit stone-faced and stoic no matter what is presented to him.

Then he remembers… they are well-concealed. There is no one looking. Sylvain is watching the stage, and he has known Dimitri for years anyway, so Dimitri need keep up no pretensions with him. If Dimitri lets his composure slip, just a little…

On stage, a lady’s bodice rips clear off to howls of laughter from the audience, and Dimitri’s face drops into his hand. Sylvain laughs, nudging Dimitri’s leg under the table. But he keeps watching the stage, unbothered and unsurprised by Dimitri’s reaction, and something uncoils inside Dimitri. The pressure on his chest eases, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself stop _thinking_. About his work, and his status, and his own reactions, all of them. Sylvain is good company, laughing loudly at all the jokes and slapping the table when the time comes for applause. Unselfconscious in a way that lets Dimitri be so too. Lets him laugh, even though his laughter feels rusty.

The reprieve does not last forever. Halfway through there is an intermission, and that goes fine. Sylvain repeats some of his favourite jokes to Dimitri with tears of laughter in his eyes, and Dimitri wonders why he thought spending time alone with Sylvain would be awkward. Sylvain is… easy. He does most of the talking, and he reads Dimitri well, and he does not ask anything more of him than his company. Seems genuinely _happy_ , unbothered by all the things Dimitri lacks as a companion. Dimitri’s face is getting sore – he is unaccustomed to smiling so much – but it is a good kind of sore.

Then the performers come back on. And during the break, someone clearly informed them that their king is in the audience. The second half of the show is a disaster.

Lines are forgotten. Props are dropped. One performer staggers onto the stage at the wrong time, blanches, and rushes back off again, taking some of the set along with her. Another performer accidentally turns a stage-punch into a real one, and his scene partner pushes through the rest of the skit with blood dripping from his nose.

It is no small miracle that they make it to the end. Whoever told the performers did them a great disservice, for they are clearly accustomed to a different sort of clientele. The explosion of nerves can only be attributed to Dimitri’s presence, and he supposes he cannot blame them. They are a humble troupe – certainly not the type who would be invited up to the palace. Dimitri’s aides would have conniptions.

Still. Disastrous second act or not, Sylvain’s good humour carries the evening through. When things go wrong and mistakes are made, his laughter is as easy as ever. And once Dimitri makes absolutely certain that no one can see him - night off or not, it would be unseemly for Dimitri to be seen laughing at his subjects - he snorts laughter into his own palm too.

When it is done, the performers stumble off-stage with trauma written all over their faces. The audience starts chattering immediately, but no one notices him and Sylvain sitting in the shadowed back corner of the room.

Dimitri rights himself again. Pulls down his sleeves, smooths back his hair, wipes the crumbs from his tunic. Sylvain downs the last of his drink, but Dimitri leaves his own unfinished. Pulls his cloak and gloves back on.

He is tired, now. As quickly as it came, his good mood is fading, the reality of his life pressing down on him once again. He wants to go back to his chambers where he can strip off his layers and not worry about anyone looking at him, or inadvertently ruining a performance simply by joining the crowd. He wants to play his piano, practice his songs, then climb into bed.

The performers know he is in the audience, though, and Dimitri has a duty. He finds the owners of the establishment and asks to be introduced.

The leader of the troupe looks at Dimitri with a terror he has only seen before on the field of battle. He is as frozen as a startled deer when Dimitri approaches. Moves in slow motion when Dimitri goes to shake his hand, as though he cannot believe what he is seeing.

Dimitri pastes on his smile. Shakes one hand, then the next person’s, then the next. Asks their names one by one, and thanks them for the show.

“It was a wonderful performance,” he tells the group at large. The first half, at least, though he diplomatically keeps that thought to himself.

“We-we are deeply honoured, my lord – Your Majesty, sir,” the troupe leader stammers. “The highest of honours, to entertain you.”

“I was most entertained,” Dimitri assures them. He fixes his gaze on two performers in particular – the youngest, shyest ones, who performed great feats of physical comedy before completely collapsing in on themselves when they learned of their king in the audience. He smiles at them, as warm as he can muster. “I particularly enjoyed the juggling skit.”

One of them, the boy, still has yet to pick his jaw up off the floor. The girl, though, lights up, and Dimitri offers her another smile before he turns away.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he says to the owners of the venue. “You have a very fine establishment here.”

“It is an honour, an honour, sire.” Both the man and his wife bow again. Too low. Neither of them have quite figured out what to do with their arms. They are decent, humble people. Dimitri dislikes the alarm his presence brings them – brings all of them.

He understands, he does. It is not their fault. All of his life Dimitri has been raised apart from the common people, taught different rules, different manners, different expectations. If he had lived a life free of struggle, perhaps he would have seen nothing strange in their fearful respect of him. In the distance between him and them, as though his title renders him something greater than a man.

But Dimitri spent five years on the run, lower than a beast. Barely bathing, eating scraps, snarling and fighting and killing like a wild animal. Revenge consumed him, madness possessed him, and he became something less than a man. Something he will never truly atone for. If they must fear him, must bow and scrape for fear of his displeasure, let it not be for his rank – let it be for that.

Sylvain’s hand grips Dimitri by the shoulder. Jolting him out of his thoughts.

“I’d better get His Majesty back to the palace. Good evening to you all,” Sylvain says. He steers Dimitri away with a surprisingly strong grip. Releases him only once they are walking back up the palace. “I think that should answer your question.”

It takes Dimitri a moment to understand. He looks over at Sylvain – his comfortable stride, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted up to admire the moon. Sylvain is smiling, as if pleased with something.

Dimitri’s question - his reputation. He thinks back to the performers’ mistakes, when they knew he was there. Their scraping, confused bows. The alarm written all over their faces.

“What’s that face for?” Sylvain is looking at him. There is alarm on his face too now.

Dimitri shakes his head. Tries to shake off their reactions to him with it, but the knowledge of their fear burrows deep, deep down.

“Dimitri?”

Dimitri gets himself under control. Composes his features. “Thank you for a very enjoyable evening, Sylvain.”

Silence. Sylvain huffs out a breath, runs his fingers through his hair. For the first time this evening, it is awkward. Dimitri always manages to make things awkward.

“You really need to relax more, Dimitri.” Sylvain moves as if to nudge him in the side with his elbow. Reconsiders and aborts the motion.

“It was a good show,” Dimitri says. Cannot think of anything else _to_ say, so returns to safer ground. Returns to a topic that is decidedly not about him.

He can feel Sylvain’s eyes on him, but Dimitri pulls his cloak tighter about his shoulders.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Sylvain says at last. “I thought it might be your sense of humour. Just don’t tell Felix it got raunchy.”

That gets Dimitri’s attention. Felix... He wonders if Felix knows he is out with Sylvain. If Sylvain is concealing it. Or, stranger still, if Felix put Sylvain up to this. But… no. Neither option makes sense. Dimitri is over-thinking.

“Felix is no prude,” he says.

“Maybe not, but I value my head where it is. Felix is Felix. You know how he gets about you.”

Something clenches in Dimitri’s chest. He _does_ know. He remembers how Felix was in his chambers. Subdued, distant, uncertain. A stubborn, unstoppable force of a man rendered cautious in Dimitri’s presence.

Sylvain is looking at Dimitri again. Says, hurriedly, “I’m not saying it’s fair of him. But you can’t blame him for it, either.”

“No,” Dimitri agrees quietly. He does not blame Felix. He has never blamed Felix for the way things are between them.

Sylvain reaches out. Uncharacteristically careful as he places an arm around Dimitri’s shoulders. “Just give him time. He’s been in a right state ever since you got sick. He’ll settle.”

That, at least, makes more sense to Dimitri. He remembers how angry Felix was. How tired he looked, how hard he worked to keep the kingdom functional when Dimitri was incapacitated. _Something_ changed, then. Dimitri did not recognise it before. After all, his relationship with Felix has been fraught for a long time. But after he got sick, Felix got even stranger.

Perhaps it was the burden of running a kingdom. Perhaps the burden of Dimitri himself.

“He’s always been difficult about these sorts of things,” Sylvain is saying. Still talking, though Dimitri is finding it hard to listen.

“Yes,” he says. His lips feel oddly numb. “Of course.”

Sylvain lets him go. They finish their walk in silence, but when they part, he says, “It was good to see you smile again.”

It is a strange thing to say. After all, Dimitri forces himself to smile all the time.

\- - -

Lord Denmar contrives to bring his daughter along to the next meeting, so the poor girl is subjected to hours upon hours of arguments about the minutiae of taxation. Not even Sir Wesley can make that subject more entertaining. Occasionally he chimes in with an anecdote, but for the most part, he sits in the same bored silence as everyone else.

Dimitri is barely staying awake. Count Bran drones on and on about wine and other non-essential goods, and Dimitri is at the stage where is can only hope his aides are recording the details for him. He will feel the guilt of it later, as well as the shame that comes with being such a poor excuse for a king. Now, all that keeps him from slumping into his seat is Felix at his side, so distractingly handsome that every glance at him is an electric shock.

Felix is dressed today in deep wine red. Half of his hair is pulled back, framing his face, where the rest drapes freely down his back. Dimitri finds himself watching the way it moves when Felix tips his head, watching it brush against Felix’s neck and shoulders. Wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through it.

Dimitri pays no attention to hair as a general rule. He barely bothers with his own, let alone anyone else’s. Yet he finds himself mesmerised. Perhaps it is the sheer boredom of this meeting that does it. Perhaps… perhaps not.

Count Bran sits down, and Dimitri forces his attention back to the meeting.

“Thank you,” he says, though he has no idea what the man has been saying. Is relieved when someone else stands, looking to him for approval to speak. She has a large sheaf of notes in front of her, and Dimitri can only hope he hides his dismay. He nods for her to proceed.

He tries to pay attention, he really does. But today, his eye keeps drifting back to Felix. He is not hiding his staring well, either. Given that Felix is on his blind side, Dimitri has to sit at an odd angle so he can see him.

Dimitri is a weak man.

Felix spends most of the meeting glaring at people, as he usually does. Stern, icy, acerbic. Dimitri’s right hand, and Felix wields his power with swift finality whenever people overstep.

“This matter doesn’t concern the king, Duchess Vila,” he snaps when the duchess appeals to Dimitri directly over a minor land dispute.

“It is a matter of some import, Your Grace.”

“Take it to the local magistrate. This is a waste of the assembly’s time. We’re here to discuss trade, not your borders.”

There is no arguing with Felix. His tongue only sharpens with every attempt, and his patience is infamously thin. The duchess glowers, but has no choice but to return to her seat.

The next time Felix cuts in with a sharp reminder – this time preventing Countess Hestia and Earl Effring from starting a fight again – Sir Wesley also pipes up.

“Well spoken, Duke Fraldarius. Your wit and wisdom are, as ever, a sight to behold. We are graced indeed by your presence.”

There is something off about it, just slightly. Sir Wesley is always effusive, but today he is _too_ effusive. There is an odd undercurrent of tension in it. He leans into the table as though seeking Felix’s approval.

Perhaps Dimitri was mistaken, thinking Sir Wesley's quiet was due to boredom. He is as golden as ever, but his charm is not effortless today. There is strain around the corners of his smile.

Dimitri’s gaze flits to Felix. To his handsome face rendered suddenly and surprisingly neutral. No blush. No snarl, either. Felix just looks at Sir Wesley. Inclines his head, ever so slowly, but does not otherwise acknowledge the compliment.

Eventually, the meeting adjourns. People begin to stand and talk amongst themselves, and Felix turns to Dimitri.

“Why do you keep looking at me funny?” he mutters. “We’re in a meeting, I’m not going to do anything.”

Dimitri can feel his face redden as mortification sweeps through him. To be so unsubtle, so _obvious_ in his admiration. But then he follows Felix’s line of sight. Finds Felix glaring as Sir Wesley again, and… oh.

Felix thinks Dimitri is staring at him because Dimitri is worried Felix might act out. Dimitri’s next breath is shaky with both guilt and relief.

“I know,” Dimitri says.

Felix scowls. Crosses his arms. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I would never mean to imply so,” Dimitri says. Felix’s scowl deepens. Glaring daggers at Sir Wesley – charming, likeable Sir Wesley – and Dimitri’s mouth is opening before he realises. “You look different today.”

Felix’s scowl falters. He blinks. “Do I?”

Dimitri’s stomach sinks into his boots. What is he _doing_?

“Y-your hair,” he explains, even as he feels his cheeks heat. Wishes fervently that the ground would just swallow him whole.

Felix’s hand moves up to touch it. His scowl returns, and his cheeks redden. “Annette did this. I told her it was stupid.”

“No,” Dimitri says. Even to his own ears, he sounds painfully awkward. “It is not stupid. I… I like it.”

A moment of silence, so awkward it is unbearable. Felix’s hand rubs his neck. He ducks his head away from Dimitri, and even the tips of his ears are red.

“I’d better, uh…” Felix stands. He darts a look at Dimitri. Darts his eyes away again, his hand fidgeting with a loose strand of hair. “I’ll… see you later?”

“Of course,” Dimitri says, and Felix disappears into the crowd.

Goddess. Dimitri hates himself, sometimes. He should know better than to try and compliment Felix, of all things. Sir Wesley’s compliments are eloquent and elegant, would flatter even the steeliest of hearts. Dimitri stammers his out like a schoolboy.

He needs to sleep more. If Dimitri were thinking clearly, he would never have said such a thing at all. _I like your hair_. Goddess. Why would Felix even care for his opinion?

“Your Majesty!” It is Lord Denmar. Of course it is. Dragging his poor daughter over to Dimitri after forcing her to sit through the most boring meeting of the summit.

“My lord. My lady,” Dimitri replies. He draws himself up to his full height. Knows he should smile, but cannot muster one. Lady Olivia’s eyes trace his form, all the way up, and her eyes are wide. Her father, though, is relentless, a rictus grin across his face.

“My Olivia and I were just discussing what an excellent opportunity this summit is. Very eye-opening for a young lady, learning the ins and outs of running a kingdom. Is it not, my dear?”

The girl nods. Looking at the floor now, fingers playing with her skirts.

Somewhere to the left, Dimitri hears, “Felix, may I have a moment?”

Dimitri’s head whips around. It is Sir Wesley, standing by the door only a few feet away. Right in front of Felix, blocking his path.

“Duke Fraldarius,” Felix corrects, icy cold.

“Duke Fraldarius, of course, I-”

Whatever Sir Wesley says next is drowned out by Lord Denmar. “Olivia is a very talented scholar indeed, sire, and most grateful for Your Majesty’s generous accommodations.”

Dimitri jerks his head back to the front. Forces himself to nod, but his mind is racing and his ears are straining to hear Felix’s conversation. Trying to drown out the sound of Denmar’s boasting.

He hears only snatches.

“I’ve told you… had enough,” Felix mutters.

Sir Wesley’s reply is even quieter, and Dimitri can barely make it out. “Just… talk. I don’t understand… you know how I…”

“Is that not so, Your Majesty? … Sire?”

“Hm?” Dimitri snaps back to the conversation in front of him.

“The king is otherwise occupied, Father,” Lady Olivia whispers. Her face is clearly mortified. She tugs at her father’s sleeve, as though trying to pull him away.

“Nonsense, my dear,” Lord Denmar says. Again with that forced jolliness that barely conceals his desperation. “What man could refuse the company of such a fair young lady? Is that not so, Your Majesty?”

“ _Father_.” The blatant misery on Lady Olivia’s face is all that keeps Dimitri civil.

He has no idea how they came to talk of _company_. When he turns his head he can see Felix’s increasingly agitated hand gestures, and Dimitri wants to _know_ , wants desperately to listen in, but Denmar is too good at this. Navigating his bid for power requires too much of Dimitri’s attention. Dimitri's temper flares - he restrains it, but only just.

“My mind is on other matters, my lord,” Dimitri says. “For that I apologise – I appear to have missed part of the conversation.”

“Why, we are speaking of the ball!” Lord Denmar says. “And partners, of course, sire.”

He winks at Dimitri, inappropriately chummy. Despite his determination to restrain himself, Dimitri’s lips thin. Lady Olivia practically shrinks before him.

It is not the girl’s fault, he reminds himself. Not the girl’s fault. She is even more mortified by this than Dimitri is. If she were clawing alongside her father that would be one thing, but she is not. She is a good-natured girl with unfortunate parents, and Dimitri cannot punish her for that.

“Perhaps you would honour me with a waltz, my lady,” Dimitri says, forcing himself to ignore the triumph that crosses her father’s face.

“I w-would be delighted, sire.” She curtsies. Cannot look at him, her face still scarlet.

“It is settled then. Now do excuse me, my lord. My lady.”

Dimitri makes his escape. He is just in time to see Felix push past Sir Wesley and storm out into the corridor. Sir Wesley is about to follow, but he is blocking Dimitri’s way as much as he was blocking Felix’s. All of a sudden Dimitri is in front of him, and Dimitri can see the moment his duty compels him to stop. To bow to his king, instead of chasing after Felix.

“Your Majesty,” he says. For the first time, Dimitri sees what frustration looks like on the man’s golden face.

“Sir Wesley.”

The knight steps neatly to the side, still bowing, to allow Dimitri to pass. As Dimitri steps into the corridor, he spies the last flicker of Felix’s cloak around the corner. Felix is long gone now, and Dimitri would be lying if he said the knowledge did not give him some relief.

He returns to his chambers to change before dinner. Avoids the mirror as he strips off and pulls on his new clothes. He is not sure why he bothers, really. He has not exactly worked up a sweat, and his clothes are black on black, as they always are.

He should head back downstairs immediately. The meeting was long, and dinner will be served any moment. But his gaze settles on his piano. On the new sheet of music his tutor gave him.

He sits. Just a few minutes, that is all.

He plays the right hand, then the left. Still separately, still clumsily, for even simplified this song is beyond his current abilities. But with every repetition, he is getting better. Learning, slowly, how to read it. Learning how to play it as soft as it deserves.

Its true name is _The Prince_. He plays it over and over, on endless repeat. Expresses what he feels in the only way he can, in the privacy of his chambers when there is no one there to hear him.

Felix’s song. And sometimes, if he plays it well enough, he can pretend it is worth listening to.

\- - -

It is to Dimitri’s great surprise that Felix does come and see him later.

It is two hours since dinner finished, and Dimitri is working in his office again. Slogging through the backlog of papers on his desk. One of his aides has been through and sorted them for him, drawing his attention to the most pressing ones, which is helpful. Still, the mountain of work only increases. He scarcely knows how he will get through it all.

“Enter,” he calls when he hears a knock. Finishing his signature, then doing a double-take when he looks up to find Felix hovering in his doorway.

Hovering, not coming in. Arms folded over his chest, and eyes fixed on the floor.

“Good evening, Felix,” Dimitri says. “What can I do for you?”

Felix grunts. Considers a moment, seems to undergo some sort of internal debate, then closes Dimitri’s door behind him and comes to sit in front of the desk. There is a package wrapped in brown paper under his arm, and he sets it down on the floor beside him.

Dimitri’s eye traces his face. As handsome as ever, but Felix looks tired. There is that particular hunch to his shoulders which indicates he is upset. A defensive shell, though one wrong move on Dimitri’s part and it will turn into anger.

“It’s late,” Felix says. “You shouldn’t be working.”

“Alas, I have no choice. I have to get through these.”

Felix shifts in his seat. His shoulders twitch – it is a tiny motion, barely noticeable, but Dimitri looks at him closer. Felix was seated too far away at dinner for Dimitri to speak with him much, but he did not seem agitated then. Sir Wesley was staring at Felix, though… have they had another argument?

Dimitri’s brow furrows, and right at that moment Felix looks up at him. Sees the concern on Dimitri’s face and scowls.

“You’re going to work yourself to death, you know,” Felix snaps. There it is, his temper. “You’ll make yourself sick again.”

“I am fine,” Dimitri says, placating. “I am quite well.”

“You say that now. You were insensible with fever for a _week_ , all because you’re a stubborn-”

Whatever insult Felix is going to say, he abruptly cuts off. Breathes heavily, visibly wrestling with himself. Still… still distressed, though Dimitri does not know why. Does not know quite how to ask what is actually wrong, because Felix surely did not come in here to berate him about something that happened several months ago.

“Felix,” he says, gentle.

Felix’s eyes dart to his face, and there is a flicker of something in them that makes Dimitri’s heart clench in his chest. Dimitri leans forward, work forgotten. Reaches out, instinctively -

“Get up and come on,” Felix snaps. He leaps to his feet in an uncharacteristically ungraceful motion. Then he pauses again, mouth twisting. “… Please.”

Dimitri blinks at him. Becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open, and closes it with a snap. Not for the first time, Felix utterly blindsides him. So familiar and yet somehow a stranger, somehow entirely unpredictable.

Slowly, Dimitri stands.

“Felix, your package,” he says as Felix moves for the door. Dimitri goes to pick it up but Felix intercepts, darting back and grabbing it. He yanks it to his chest, glaring, practically daring Dimitri to comment on his odd behaviour.

Things may be strange between them now, but Dimitri knows better than to try it.

Felix leads him down the corridor in near silence. Still twitchy, still antsy, and every question Dimitri can think of dies in his throat. _Are you all right_ would only antagonise Felix. _What happened_ would do the same. _What is going on between you and Sir Wesley_ would be a disaster. _Please, Felix, talk to me…_ Dimitri has no right to ask that.

Eventually, he settles on something neutral. “Where are we going?”

“Your room,” Felix says. “Clearly I can’t trust you to go to bed of your own volition.”

“Uh,” is Dimitri’s eloquent response. Silenced when Felix fixes him with a dark glare.

When they reach his chambers, Felix hovers on the threshold before Dimitri explicitly invites him inside. His package is still clutched to his chest, like some sort of shield, and his glower is decidedly locked in place.

Dimitri has no idea what is going on. No idea whatsoever, but it is better to go easy when Felix is in one of these moods. Easier this time around because Dimitri is fully dressed and not fending off dark whispers.

“Would you like a drink?” Dimitri asks him.

“Just go to bed.”

“I will, Felix, I will. But I really do have work to-”

“For Goddess’ _sake_ , Dimitri,” Felix explodes.

His shouting shocks Dimitri into silence. He goes still, staring while Felix brings his temper under control. Felix has said far worse before. Far, far worse. But Dimitri’s heart sinks through the floor.

Felix exhales. Scrubs a hand over his face. “This isn’t what I- look, sit down, will you?”

But Dimitri doesn’t. He feels frozen in place. Felix is shouting at him, here in the quiet of his chambers. Shouting at him. And Dimitri is being foolish, does not understand why his insides are churning because Felix really _has_ said worse things before. And much worse things have happened to Dimitri than someone yelling at him because he will not go to bed.

“… Dimitri?”

Dimitri pulls himself together. Lowers his gaze so he cannot see the way Felix is looking at him. Sits, as Felix asked.

“I didn’t come here to yell at you,” Felix mutters. Either to himself or Dimitri, Dimitri does not know. Dimitri just nods, slowly. Staring blankly at the carpet.

Felix sits down in the other armchair. Leans forward, trying to catch Dimitri’s eye. And Dimitri obliges him there too. Raises his head, and Felix’s next inhalation is sharp.

“I’m… I’m sorry, all right?” Felix says. His hands are clasped together, knuckles white. His face is drawn, a worried crease to his brow – upset. Felix is upset.

Dimitri is ruining things between them again. Overreacting. All Felix did was raise his voice, which he has done a thousand times before. Just… not _here_. Not in Dimitri’s private space, but that should hardly matter. Dimitri is overreacting. Ruining their already damaged relationship with his moods.

“All right,” he says.

“Dimitri…” Felix says, but trails off again. He looks, somehow, even more unhappy. Opens his mouth, closes it again. Shifts in his seat. Awkward, uncertain, uncomfortable.

“What did you want to see me about?” Dimitri says. Using his manners again. Trying to pretend everything is normal. Felix’s eyes search Dimitri’s face, but Dimitri looks away again.

Felix exhales. Says, quieter, “I came to bring you something. It’s… it’s stupid. It doesn’t matter.”

“What is it?”

Felix hesitates. Shoves the brown paper package at Dimitri, and Dimitri takes it. It is quite heavy, now he feels it. Large and rectangular.

He opens it. Finds a handful of piano books inside. Stares at them, his fingers idly playing with the wrapping paper. Piano books.

“It’s – I mentioned to Annette that you play and she insisted on sending you something. That’s all it is.”

Dimitri pulls them out of the paper, slow and careful. They are beautiful things, hard-bound. Collections from a variety of composers, and at a variety of skill levels. Dimitri flips through them. Some of the arrangements are simple, some challenging, but there are definitely songs here he will be able to play.

“I - she wasn’t sure where you were up to, so she just got you a selection,” Felix mutters. His arms are crossed again.

“They are beautiful.” Dimitri runs his fingers over one of their covers. Rocked, blind-sided once again. But this time... this time, he feels... “Please, thank her for me.”

He looks up, and he knows that he is smiling. He can feel it spreading across his face, matching the slow bloom of warmth in his chest.

Felix stares at him. In this light his eyes look darker. His twitchiness stills, and the lingering furrow in his brow smooths out. He just... _stares_.

Dimitri’s smile slips, a wave of self-consciousness washing over him. He looks back down at his books. Touches them, feeling the texture of them. Taking them in.

Felix clears his throat. Gets to his feet.

“I should be going,” he says, gruff. “But… really, get some sleep.”

“I will,” Dimitri promises.

When Felix leaves, though, he continues to flip through his books. Feels the slow pulse of... of _joy_ running through his system. So foreign and unexpected. Like whip-lash, given that only moments before Felix was yelling at him, but if he dwells too much on that then the good feeling will go away.

It is a shy sort of joy. Slightly embarrassed, too. He really is not very good at the piano, and these books must have been expensive. Were chosen specifically for _him_. Given to him simply because he has a hobby, no matter how private he keeps it.

Dimitri does not know how to label this feeling. Holds his books to his chest when he stands to take them to the piano. Sets them down carefully, wary of his strength.

He pulls out his piano stool. Finds the simplest piece and, slowly, he begins to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all your lovely comments! you guys are the best <3


	4. Chapter 4

The next social event on Dimitri’s calendar is a tournament.

Once this would have been a cause for celebration. The exertion and exhilaration of competition, the opportunity to test his skills against an opponent in a non-lethal setting. Dimitri participated in many during his school years. Tournaments were one of the few things he genuinely looked forward to.

Today, though, he is only a figurehead. He is not supposed to participate in the fighting, but watch and applaud. His approval is the prize, and today is an opportunity for fighters from all over the continent to impress him.

Dimitri knows the importance of this tradition. Regardless, it is hard to get out of bed.

He dresses – black on black, as usual. Pulls on his boots and gloves and cloak. Avoids looking at himself in the mirror as much as is possible, taking in only pieces rather than the sum of his reflection. Breaking himself down to fragments so he does not have to confront the whole.

His hair. His buttons. His shirt collar. Tidy – as good as he is ever going to get.

Dimitri makes his way through the palace. Down the stairs, inclining his head to those who stop and bow as he passes. Out onto the grounds again, in the opposite direction from the rose gardens.

The tournament is to be held in a specially-erected fighting ring. It is not Dimitri’s idea – the official training yards are perfectly adequate, as far as he is concerned. They are not, however, ideal for a large group of spectators, and today is nothing if not a performance.

The grounds are already thronged with people. Men, women and children all milling about and chattering excitedly. The fighting ring itself is huge, and picnic blankets have been laid out all around it for the general populace. In deference, perhaps, to the lingering dew.

For him and his lords, there is a marquee. Comfort and luxury, even in the outdoors. It is hard to remember sometimes that they were at war not so long ago, for the lords complain at even the most minor of discomforts. As though they have forgotten true struggle.

Dimitri remembers all too well. Exile, then war, one blending into the other. He remembers the pain, his body screaming as its most basic needs were denied it, his fractured mind at war with itself. Remembers the ever-present hunger gnawing at his belly, the sleeplessness, the desperate thirst. Remembers the haze of his madness, the things he did, the things he said, the rare moments of lucidity between ranting and raving at visions of the dead.

It was living death. And now Dimitri is expected to care if one lord receives a larger glass of fine vintage wine than another.

He can see them clearly now. It as though he is observing some grotesque portrait, an artist’s rendition of the vulgarities of nobility. They are gathered in the marquee, a writhing, seething mass. Packed in too close, because to step outside would be to yield their _position_ , and position is everything. The overpowering smell of perfume wafts across the breeze. He can already see them taking jabs at each other, smiling through clenched teeth, snarling orders at unfortunate servants who come their way. They sneer at each other, at their surroundings, at the people making their way to the picnic rugs, as though they are _better_.

They are not better. They squeal and bleed and die like anyone else.

Dimitri is breathing too fast. His stomach is rolling, and he forces himself to take a steadying breath. To breathe in the cool, crisp air. He cannot let his thoughts go down that road. He has a long day ahead of him, a day of sitting and smiling and talking.

Memories flash across his mind. The sickening kind, unwelcome, unbidden. He forces them away too. Thinks of the piano books Felix and Annette gave him. Thinks of his progress, slow but definite, and the way his fingers move easier over the keys. It does not help. He can muster none of the joy or excitement now.

His thoughts whirl, threatening, intrusive. He feels unbalanced, his mind and body out of sync. It seems that for every moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness, Dimitri must pay an equal price in misery.

He is sick of it. Sick of everything – the summit, his guests, his endless and unpredictable moods. Sick of himself.

But the show goes on. He is the king. There is no way out.

“His Royal Majesty,” a servant announces as Dimitri steps inside the marquee. The assembled nobility are on their feet at once, bowing.

“Good morning to you all,” Dimitri greets. A caricature of a man, but not in a way anyone else notices. He does a good impression of normal.

It falls by the wayside, though, when he spots a pregnant woman standing at the edge of the marquee. _Good morning_ is chorused back at him, but he pays little attention, scanning his surroundings. The marquee is over-crowded, with a mere handful of chairs stuffed inside it. Chairs that are already occupied, exclusively by members of the very highest houses, and he can see the smug satisfaction on their faces. There is only one chair left unclaimed – large, positively decked in cushions, and clearly intended for him.

He looks back to the lady. Heavily pregnant, as even the most ignorant of fools could see. Already shifting her weight back and forth in discomfort. Standing, while fit and healthy young lords lounge in their cushions.

Dimitri’s tenuous hold on his mood snaps. He stalks across the tent. People scatter out of his way, and the lady’s eyes go wide as he approaches. She glances behind herself as though looking to see who he means to address. Realises it is _her_ , and shrinks before him.

“My lady,” Dimitri says. “Please, have a seat.”

She startles. Looks around the sidelines for a spare chair, her confusion obvious on her face, before she understands his meaning. That he is telling her to take the seat meant for _him_.

“Oh no, sire, I could not possibly -” she starts, but Dimitri will hear none of it.

He takes her by the hand - gently, but with an intent far more forceful than is generally acceptable from a strange man - and escorts her to it.

“I absolutely insist upon it,” he says. Will not take no for an answer, despite her stammered protestations.

She is a woman from a minor noble house, not known to him by name. And by consequence she has been left to stand for hours on end, despite the obviousness of her physical need, because her house lacks _prestige_.

And Dimitri… he has nothing today. _Nothing_. He looks around at the assembled lords, not one of whom stood for a _pregnant woman_ , and he is done.

He seats the lady. Releases her hand once he is sure she will not try to get up again, waving away both her gratitude and embarrassment. He catches the attention of a passing servant.

“Please ensure this lady is properly taken care of.” His voice sounds strange, even to his own ears, and the servant hastens to obey.

A young lord seated nearby leaps to his feet. Smiles at Dimitri, obsequious, though it wavers when Dimitri does not smile back. “Your Majesty, do take my seat instead, I beg you.”

Dimitri can feel his lip curling back from his teeth. Stares at the lord, his disgust all-too-evident on his face. “I would not dream of taking a chair from one who needs it. I can only assume that is why you did not stand for this lady.”

Silence. Deathly silence. In a corner of the marquee, Dimitri suddenly spots Sylvain, surrounded by attractive young women as usual. Even Sylvain is quiet.

“I – I beg pardon, Your Majesty,” the young lord stammers. “I…”

“I did not realise decency was such a rare commodity.” There is no mistaking Dimitri’s revulsion. Lords shift in their seats, uncomfortable, and not one of them has the courage to look him in the eye. The air in the marquee is unbearable. Bated, waiting to see what Dimitri will do next.

He should say something to ease the tension. To soften the reprimand. Should say something glib and winning and make everyone friends, somehow, as Sir Wesley manages to do. If Dimitri were good at this, he would know how to balance both.

But he has nothing. Is so sick of this, sick of the relentless, crushing weight of his obligations. Sick of pretending to smile at people so petty and pathetic that they will not perform the most basic acts of human decency.

“These chairs should go to those who need them,” Dimitri says into the silence. “I will find a seat elsewhere.”

With that he whirls on his heel. He is out of the marquee and striding across the grass before anyone can say otherwise. One of his aides comes running after him, twisting his hands and stammering, but Dimitri does not slow his pace.

“Your Majesty, please, I can find another chair. There are plenty in the palace!”

“Good!” he barks. “I believe Duchess Madalaina is still standing. Please fetch her one.”

“B-but sire-”

Dimitri will not hear it. His aide twitches, but hurries off to find the elderly duchess a chair.

Heads turn when Dimitri strides by. Whispers abound, though no one asks him directly what he is doing. He finds an unoccupied picnic blanket up on the hill and all but throws himself down.

In some corner of his mind, he knows he is overreacting, that the sheer strength of emotion flooding through him is unwarranted. He knows he should go back and make nice, but he cannot bring himself to do it. To sacrifice any more of himself for the benefit of grasping, graceless, selfish people, so caught up in their own importance they would not even offer a pregnant woman a chair.

He wants to return to his chambers. Wants, conflictingly, to go running across the grounds for the sheer exertion of it. Wants to _fight_ , and rid himself of this useless, irrational, burning anger.

He wants most of all to be left alone. For an hour, a day, a year. But that is impossible

The sudden change of his seating plan throws his staff into uproar. The head servant all but runs after him, but Dimitri will not be persuaded back to the marquee.

“I am perfectly comfortable here,” he says. He barely keeps himself in check. “Proceed with the arrangements exactly as planned, no changes are required.”

“But sire, the refreshment tables are over there.”

“I am capable of walking if I am hungry, Tabitha. Please do not move them.”

His tone is edged, but Tabitha is not cowed. She pins him with a stare. “This is unorthodox, sire. The marquee is laid out to be enjoyed by you and your guests.”

“And I am certain they are enjoying it. Proceed as normal. You are dismissed.”

She bows, her disapproval evident in every line of her face. A cluster of servants gather around her as she goes, flocking around her like confused hens. Looking for instruction now the king has thrown their plans out of order.

He is twenty paces away at most. _Twenty paces_ from the marquee. But nothing Dimitri does is without flow-on consequence, and he pretends not to hear Tabitha when she tells her staff, irritated, “The king is in one of his stubborn moods today.”

He scowls, but… it is not an inaccurate assessment. He is in free-fall, openly rebelling against his duty and his obligations as a host, refusing the expectations placed upon him as king.

But his lords did not stand even for a pregnant woman, and Dimitri cannot endure them. Cannot stomach them, not today. He can practically hear the reprimands he will receive – Gilbert, Felix, any and all of his advisors. But he cannot do it, however poor a king it makes him.

Tabitha returns with a plate of sandwiches, a pitcher of water and a defiant look. She sets them down on his blanket, adjusting their arrangement with her usual attention to detail. Simultaneously ignoring and fussing over Dimitri, which is quite a feat.

The other servants are not so bold. They hover off to one side, lacking the nerve to approach him so brazenly after Tabitha herself was dismissed, and Tabitha clicks her tongue impatiently.

“Come on,” she snaps, and the servants slink in close to erect an umbrella above him.

Dimitri takes in a steadying breath. Wishes, not for the first time, that they would just let him alone. But he is a king, and they are his staff, and they know their jobs better than he does.

“Thank you, Tabitha. Very thoughtful. Though I repeat that no changes to the planned arrangements are necessary.”

“Of course, sire,” she says, in a way that very much means she will continue to do as she sees fit.

Naturally, his guests are equally unwilling to let him alone. They ooze across the grass in confused disarray, trying to make it seem like their migration is natural.

“What a lovely day to enjoy the sunshine!” one of the lords declares as he finds himself a picnic blanket nearby, practically shouting the words to ensure that Dimitri hears them.

They are vacating their chairs, at least. There will be enough for those who genuinely need them now.

Sylvain is the only lord daring enough to approach him. Nudges Dimitri to the side of his blanket so he can sprawl out beside him. In a good mood, seemingly oblivious to Dimitri’s poor one as he chatters on. About women.

Dimitri could not be any less interested in women right now. A fact Sylvain seems to want to correct.

“Dimitri, you’re missing out on so many opportunities!” he says. “You should come and meet my friends. There are some very fine ladies around. Lady Bronwyn’s a skilled fighter, too – I know you like them fierce.”

He nudges Dimitri, grinning. Dimitri just grunts.

“Come on,” Sylvain wheedles. “You need to relax a bit. You’re missing out.”

“I have no interest in your womanising,” Dimitri snaps. Too harsh, and he regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. He is just so sick of everything. Including, as it turns out, Sylvain.

Sylvain just shrugs, seemingly unperturbed. “You’re not a man easily tempted. Never mind – leaves plenty of ladies for me.”

Dimitri grunts again.

“Or…” Sylvain hesitates, just a fraction. “You know, Lord Elwyn is very handsome, and I’m sure-”

“ _Sylvain_.” Dimitri’s heart is pounding all of a sudden. His palms are sweaty in his leather gloves. He does not… he did not think anyone…

Sylvain raises his hands placatingly. “All right, all right. I just want you to have some fun is all.”

He leaves it at that. Sits beside Dimitri in silence while Dimitri calms down. Feeling decidedly like his entire being is an exposed nerve.

He does not want Sylvain to see it. Does not want him to know, even though Dimitri cannot entirely manage his outbursts. He wants to be a friend to him, easy and companionable. Not… not this. Not difficult, volatile. Dimitri hates that he is so volatile.

He pulls himself together. Forces his anger and misery deep, deep down where no one can reach them. Pulls on his mask as best he can.

“I am looking forward to seeing you fight today,” he tells Sylvain. “I am sure your lady friends will be very impressed.”

Sylvain is quiet a moment. Gives Dimitri a searching look, his mouth tightening. His eyes, usually glimmering with mischief, are suddenly sharp.

Dimitri has not fooled him. He has not fooled Sylvain, and his heart is beating too fast again.

“Dimitri… look.” Sylvain says, pushing his hair back from his face. “I know you prefer to keep to yourself, but… we’ve been friends a long time, you know? You can talk to me. About… things.”

Sylvain looks at him expectantly. Dimitri looks away, back to the fighting ring.

He does not know how.

“Of course,” he says. “Thank you, Sylvain.”

Sylvain looks as though he wants to say something else, but a trumpet sounds. He glances towards the ring, where the combatants are readying themselves. He sighs.

“I have to go down now, but… talk soon, all right?”

“As you like.”

Sylvain usually leaves Dimitri with a smile, but not today. Today he furrows his brows at him, even when Dimitri pastes a smile on his own face. He claps a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and squeezes it, lingering, before he goes.

Dimitri is not sure what Sylvain sees. He is quite sure Sylvain does not like it.

He leaves, though, and Dimitri’s gaze follows him as he makes his way down to the ring. He spots Felix, and his heart stutters, as it so often does. Felix, unlike Sylvain, will not waste time socialising before a tournament. He is warming up, sword in hand, and his brow is furrowed with concentration.

He is a force of nature. A whirlwind of power and skill. Beautiful, so beautiful, when he fights. So far out of Dimitri’s reach. He watches him, though, lets Felix wash over him in all his strength and perfection. Feels that familiar ache in his chest.

Felix. He is pain and joy all in one.

“Y-Your Majesty?”

Dimitri starts. Looks up to find Lady Olivia hovering nervously by his blanket.

“My lady?” Dimitri says. His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat.

“I-I noticed that you did n-not have any cake, sire. I-I should be happy to share mine.”

The words are obviously rehearsed, despite her stammer. She clutches a plate in her hands, laden with cakes and biscuits and slices. Baked goods hold little appeal for Dimitri, given the insensitivity of his palate. He opens his mouth to say no. Remembers her shyness, and how much it must have cost her to come to him.

“Thank you, my lady,” he says. Then, fighting with himself, wrestling for a semblance of politeness, “Please, sit with me, if you would like. I believe the fighting is about to begin.”

She sits down, setting the plate between them. Dressed in a white, flowery gown, the perfect picture of a young lady out on a picnic. Dimitri looks down at his own clothes. Black, always black. The only colour that feels right on him, and yet he is always out of place. As ghastly in his own way as the whispers that keep him awake in the night, and always trying to pretend otherwise.

Stuck, once again, pretending to be better than he is for the benefit of his company.

True to his word, the tournament begins. Two fighters enter the ring, and they are supposed to bow to Dimitri first, causing another brief kerfuffle as they look to the marquee and find he is not there. They find him quickly, though, and they reposition themselves. Bow to him, then to each other.

As first fights go, it is a disappointing one. Over in a matter of seconds, and Dimitri thinks nothing of it until he hears Lady Olivia’s gasp. She is covering her mouth with her hand, watching wide-eyed as the loser is taken from the battlefield with blood streaming down his face.

The next fight is longer. Better matched, and both fighters mean to win. Neither is willing to yield, so when the match ends neither of them leave the ring uninjured. They look to him, and Dimitri nods his approval.

Another fight, then another. Despite a poor start, the determination and skill on display perks Dimitri up. These are _real_ fighters, not noblemen squaring off against each other in a politely reluctant duel. It is the first time, perhaps, that fighters from all over the continent have crossed blades since the war. And though some are less skilled than others, every one of them means business.

Dimitri could be out there. Fighting amongst them, revelling in the burn and sweat and pleasure of it. Testing his skills against the finest in the continent. _Enjoying_ himself.

Instead, Dimitri sits on his blanket. A figurehead. Useless.

No event would be complete without Sir Wesley, and all too soon it is his turn in the ring. Dimitri leans back, fighting the familiar surge of irrational dislike. Sir Wesley is not content with merely bowing to Dimitri, as the rest have done. Instead he makes a spectacle of himself. Bows with a flourish, then announces at large that he fights solely to honour his king.

“With this blade, Your Majesty, I hope to prove myself worthy. With this victory, I hope to honour you.”

He goes on, effusive and _arrogant_ , and Dimitri hopes Sir Wesley cannot make out his expression at this distance. This is not _Sir Wesley’s_ tournament, but a tournament for all. Drawing such attention to himself is -

Dimitri cuts those thoughts off quickly, before his mind gets stuck in a circle of vitriol. Fixes his gaze on Felix again, down on the side of the ring, but this time it does not calm him. Because Felix – Sir Wesley –

Dimitri picks up a biscuit, just for something to do with his hands.

Sir Wesley fights well. Very well indeed, it turns out, which should not be a surprise. Felix took up with him, after all, and historically sword fighting is the only thing capable of piquing Felix’s interest. Sir Wesley is strong, and skilled, and he fights like the finest of knights.

Too fine. Dimitri wonders if Sir Wesley fought during the war, for he is too chivalrous, too constrained. Classically trained and civilised, where everyone else lost their civility a long time ago.

Still, he wins. Wins over and over, and bows to Dimitri every time he does it. Waves and revels in the audience’s delight with him. Looks over at Felix every time and –

Felix is not watching him fight. Is standing by the ringside, but in conversation with Sylvain. Blatantly, rudely _ignoring_ him, no matter what Sir Wesley does. The knight fights harder, more fiercely, but Felix does not look. Even as the crowd gasps and cheers. Even as Sir Wesley grows bolder, takes more risks, pulls off stunts that are really, genuinely dangerous. He keeps looking over at Felix, and not once does Felix look back. When Sir Wesley steps out of the ring, undefeated, Dimitri can see the frustration in every line of his body.

Dimitri is equal parts elated and guilty, because it is _not his business_. It is not like Felix is looking at _Dimitri_ , after all. It is petty in the extreme to be glad Sir Wesley is met with similar indifference.

Yet Dimitri is glad of it. Shamefully, disgracefully glad.

The next fights, without Sir Wesley’s chivalry, take a turn for the aggressive again. Lady Olivia lets out a squeak as a particularly fierce duel ends up with a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder. Her face is white and pinched with anxiety. She watches the injured man as he is supported out of the ring by a medic, and there is something like horror on her face.

“He will be quite all right,” Dimitri assures her. Musters what little smile he can when she looks to him for reassurance.

“It is so – so _violent_ ,” she says.

Dimitri looks back at the fighting ring. Its adjudicators, waiting to pull anyone up for anything unsporting. Its team of medics hovering around the side. The immaculate ground, clear of any hazards. Fighters facing off one against one, the fight stopping the moment one of them yields.

He remembers the war. The blood. The screams. The lack of anything resembling mercy as armies meet.

“You have not seen a real battlefield.” Only after he has said it does Dimitri realise his mistake. It is low, almost dismissive of her distress, which is not his intent – he would spare her battle’s horrors. Spare her and all of his people the desolation of war.

Olivia blanches. Twists her skirts in her hands and says, miserably, “I – forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean – I… I…”

Dimitri shuts his eye, just for a moment. “Forgive me if I spoke harshly. I am glad of it. If I have my way, all of my people will be protected from the horrors of the battlefield.”

A moment of quiet. Lady Olivia slowly unclenching her hands from her skirts. Still miserable when she says, “You must think me such a – such a small, silly girl.”

Dimitri turns to her in surprise. Her cheeks are flushed again, mouth twisted in distress.

“Not at all,” he tells her. “You are a sweet girl. I would not wish you into battle for anything.”

She blinks. Her cheeks flush crimson, and she ducks her head, but not before he catches the shy smile spreading across her face.

“Why are you sitting up here?” snaps a familiar voice.

It is Felix. Dimitri jolts, and for a moment he wonders if he is seeing things, because what is _Felix_ doing here? He should be down by the ring, awaiting his turn.

Instead, he looms over Dimitri, arms folded and scowling. Dressed to fight, his pants fitted down the muscular lines of his legs, his shirt emphasising the width of his shoulders. His sword is at his hip. Any moment, Felix is surely due to enter the ring.

“What?” is all Dimitri manages to say.

“Why are you sitting. Here. Instead of in the marquee.” Felix’s words are clipped. His expression is dark with anger, though he holds it back. Shoots a glance in Olivia’s direction, and Dimitri can only assume it is for her sake that Felix is not lashing him already. Dimitri is, after all, not where he is supposed to be.

“It is a beautiful day.” As excuses go, it is not a particularly strong one.

“You should be mingling. Not having a…” Felix’s lips thin. “A private picnic.”

Dimitri cringes. Felix is right to be angry, but the best justification Dimitri can muster is, “It is not private.”

Felix’s nostrils flare. His eyes shoot between Dimitri and Lady Olivia. He looks more than angry – he looks upset, too.

First Sylvain, now Felix. Dimitri is ruining everything.

“I needed some fresh air. That is all,” Dimitri says, and his voice is small, smaller than it should be in company. He is so foolish, sometimes. He can feel his shoulders slumping.

Felix grinds his jaw. His eyes flash over Dimitri’s face. Then he exhales, smoothing back a stray tendril of hair from his face.

“Well. You deserve a break, I suppose,” he mutters. Capitulating, which is a surprise. Then Felix looks at Olivia again, and Dimitri understands. Felix cannot reprimand him properly in front of her.

Still, there is no need for Felix to give her such a withering look.

The silence stretches on too long. Dimitri summons his manners. Pastes on his smile. “Please allow me to introduce you. This is Lady Olivia, Lord Denmar’s youngest daughter. My lady, the Duke Fraldarius.”

“Denmar’s daughter. Of course.” Felix’s expression is dark and forbidding. He raises his chin, both proud and cold.

“I-it is an honour to meet you, Your Grace.”

“Hn.” Felix makes his hostility all-too-evident. Shoots her one of his nastier looks then turns back to Dimitri, blocking her out. “I need to speak with you later. I’ll come by your rooms.”

He speaks oddly pointedly. Strangely emphatic, as though rounding off an argument. A warning, Dimitri assumes. The promise of punishment for Dimitri’s misdeeds.

“Of course, Felix.” There is no hiding Dimitri’s dejection.

Felix gives Dimitri a complicated look, too complicated for him to read, then turns and stalks away. Back towards the ring, where he should be, and Dimitri remains at a loss as to why he would leave mid-tournament to have a conversation that was, as far as Dimitri can tell, perfectly capable of waiting. It is decidedly unlike him.

Dimitri will hear all about it later, he supposes. No matter how awkward their relationship is now, Felix is not shy with his reprimands.

First things first. Felix’s hostility often requires explanation, and Dimitri looks to Olivia to see if he has offended her. Instead he finds her staring after Felix, wearing the familiar stunned expression that many people wear after being in close proximity to him. Felix is at his most devastating when dressed to fight, his eyes sparking and his clothing fitted to him like a glove.

Lady Olivia jolts out of her stupor when she sees Dimitri looking at her. Fumbles for a cake, her cheeks red. Dimitri is accustomed to the effect Felix has on people – there is no need for her to be embarrassed about it.

He smiles at her as best he can. Looks back to the ring. “He is very handsome.”

Olivia fumbles her cake again. “Y-yes, sire. V-very handsome.”

“He will be coming to the ball.” The most desired dance partner, entirely out of Dimitri’s reach. He is used to it.

“Oh n-no, sire! You m-misunderstand me. He is very handsome, but h-he is not to my tastes.”

That pulls Dimitri up short. He blinks at her, unsure if he heard her correctly. Not to her tastes? _Felix_?

Despite the colour in her cheeks, Olivia goes on. Lowering her voice, as though telling Dimitri a secret. “He is – f-forgive me, Your Majesty. But he is quite intimidating.”

A laugh bursts out of Dimitri’s chest, unbidden. “I… suppose he is. Here I thought myself the more frightening, between the two of us.”

He should not speak so. Should not voice the thought, for it is a glimpse behind his mask, too personal, too raw. But Olivia just shakes her head. Toys with her skirts.

“O-only at first, sire. You are a warrior and a king, but you are v-very… very kind.”

Dimitri is speechless. Becomes aware his mouth is hanging open when Lady Olivia lets out a nervous little giggle.

He shuts it. Mercifully a new fight begins, and he is given an excuse to turn his attention back to the ring. Lady Olivia is a shy girl. Sweet, if a little awkward. He thought she was frightened of him – she certainly was at first – but… she is not frightened now. Is more intimidated by Felix than by him. Called him _kind_.

Dimitri does not know what to make of it. It does not – it does not _fit_. Not with what he knows of himself. He feels blindsided.

It is Felix’s turn to fight soon enough, and Dimitri sets his confusion aside for later consideration. Felix’s fights are a sight to behold. He is a force of nature, unstoppable, unbeatable. Aggressive yet skilled, strong yet lightning fast. He wins and wins and wins. Steps off the field undefeated, to great applause, as he turns to face Dimitri. Bows one last time, as is expected of him. Dimitri inclines his head in turn, as he always does.

But… there is something different about Felix. He pounds his fist over his chest, oddly aggressive. Still angry, perhaps, and working through it in the ring. He holds Dimitri’s attention for a moment longer than protocol dictates, and even at this distance Dimitri can feel Felix’s eyes boring into him.

“He is very talented,” Lady Olivia says, and the moment ends. It is all Dimitri can do not to jump. He had forgotten she was there.

“Our best swordsman,” Dimitri agrees.

He looks back to the ring. Felix is making his way out. Joining Sylvain, who claps him on the shoulder and offers him something to drink, their camaraderie as easy as ever.

Dimitri wishes, so badly, he could join them. Wishes he could fight, rather than being stuck sitting around all day. Wishes that for once, just once, he could cast off the mantle of king.

Suddenly a whisper springs up in the crowd. Dimitri is on the alert at once, scanning for a threat, but he finds only Sir Wesley. Sir Wesley entering the ring again, well after his turn is done. Sir Wesley, looking to Dimitri, but not before he is certain he has Felix’s attention first. Only once Felix looks at him does he address his king.

“Your Royal Majesty,” he calls. There is a swell of excitement from the crowd, quickly hushed by those wanting to hear more. “I beg your forgiveness, sire, and the forgiveness of my noble brothers and sisters-in-arms for speaking out of turn. I am humbled by the skill I have witnessed here today.”

Sir Wesley glances at Felix. Another piece of flattery, another call for his attention. And Sir Wesley has it. Misses, perhaps, the way Sylvain’s hand clamps down on Felix’s arm in an iron grip, holding him back.

Dimitri should tell him to get out of the ring. He should. This is decidedly against the order of things, but… “Speak your piece, Sir Wesley.”

Sir Wesley bows to him, low and flourishing. “We have all heard the tales of your prowess in battle, my king. I am but a humble knight” - _very_ humble - “ and I have no right to ask this of you. But it would be the highest honour in the land to cross blades with you. I request, most humbly, that you honour me with a duel.”

Gasps, whispers. Sir Wesley is _bold_ to ask this. It is not done, and for the first time the whispers around the perfect, golden knight take a darker turn. Shock. Indignation. One of the adjudicators hustles across the field towards him, clearly intending to shoo him off. Dimitri’s aides are also converging, faces like thunder.

A humble knight. Challenging the _king_ to a duel. It is scandalous. Unorthodox.

Dimitri is in an unorthodox sort of mood. A warrior long before he was a king. A man, just like any other.

He wants this. Wants to _fight_. Just this once.

He stands. The crowd hushes again. He hears Lady Olivia let out a noise of surprise.

“I accept.”

He does not look at Felix as he makes his way down to the field. Does not look at anyone. His aides fuss and flurry around him, but Dimitri will hear none of their objections. Hands his cloak off to the stammering Dominic as he makes his way into the ring. Violating all manner of tradition and protocol in the process.

Dimitri is already in trouble for his conduct today. Already out of control, even before he consented to fight. He will never hear the end of this. Right now, he does not care. He just wants to be happy. To feel alive again, if only for a moment.

Dimitri pulls off his overcoat. Takes up the lance that is handed to him – not his own, but it will do. The excitement of the crowd is a visceral thing, and his heart is beating faster now a weapon is in his hand.

He does not look at Felix. Does not want to see the fury surely written across his face.

“You honour me, Your Majesty,” Sir Wesley says, bowing low. All this to impress Felix, all this for his attention. A chivalrous, courtly knight, openly defying the rules of the tournament.

Sir Wesley, it seems, is losing control too.

Dimitri bows back. Says, low, “The honour is mine.”

They ready. Excitement thrums through Dimitri’s blood, sudden and heady. Sir Wesley is a skilled opponent. A challenge. That is what Dimitri needs right now. A _challenge_.

He is disappointed. Dimitri is a warrior born of war – bloodied, brutal, forceful. An army unto himself. Dressed like a king, but he will never cast off the shackles of the bloodthirsty monster he became.

It is over all too quickly. Sir Wesley, classically trained and chivalrous, never stood a chance.

\- - -

“That was excruciating.”

It is later. Felix, true to his promise, has stormed up to Dimitri’s rooms. Eyes sparking, radiating anger. He is barely in the door before he starts on Dimitri. Kicks it shut with his foot, and it slams with a _bang_.

“You’re unbelievable,” Felix snaps. “Do you even use that head of yours, or is it purely for decoration?”

Dimitri heads to his armchair. Sits down, head bowed. Taking his punishment. He knew it would come, deserves it and any other reprimand that comes his way for his conduct today. He deserves Felix’s fury.

“What were you _thinking_?” Felix paces in front of him. Angry, incredulous, demanding. “Do you have any idea the amount of people I’ve had to fend off all afternoon? Half the court’s in uproar.”

Dimitri’s heart is like lead in his chest. He nods, mute. Ashamed of himself and the failings he put on display for the continent to see. His temper, his melancholy. The sheer violence he is capable of.

Nobody could mistake the way he took down Sir Wesley for anything other than what it was. If anyone had forgotten just who Dimitri is, the things he has done, he has just reminded every last one of them. His court. His people. Lady Olivia, who mere moments before professed that she was _not_ , in fact, afraid of him, though he has little doubt his display will have changed that. Felix…

Felix, who has always been disgusted with Dimitri’s brutality. Felix, with whom Dimitri still cannot mend his relationship. Felix, who Dimitri keeps driving further and further away.

“I don’t know why I’m here if you never bother to listen to me,” Felix snarls. “Why do you even have advisors, if you never take their advice?”

“Forgive me,” Dimitri says. His voice cracks.

Felix pauses in his tirade. Breathes heavily. Dimitri can see him restraining himself as he grinds out, “Explain yourself.”

“I just…” Dimitri flounders. It is hard to speak. Hard to find the words when his mind is so fractured. When the weight on his chest is too heavy to bear. “I just… wanted to fight.”

It is a weak excuse. Miserable. Felix tosses his head, making a noise of disgust.

“Not _that_. Denmar’s girl!”

He… what?

Dimitri’s head jerks up. Felix is glaring at him, expectant, awaiting an answer. But Dimitri does not understand the question. “You… you are not angry at me for fighting?”

Felix gives him a look as though he has grown two heads. “What are you on about?”

“I just – I-” Dimitri takes a moment. Struggling to get himself back in order. To make his words make sense. “I injured Sir Wesley.”

Felix waves a hand. “He’s the idiot who challenged you. And don’t change the subject – what were you thinking, going off with the girl like that?”

Dimitri is not sure what to do. Stares at Felix, his mind slowly turning this new information over. It is just... Sir Wesley. Felix gets angry when Dimitri _mentions_ the man, let alone _fighting_ him. He repeats, “You are not angry at me for fighting Sir Wesley? Truly?”

“No, I -” Felix cuts himself off. Stops pacing at last, scowling down at Dimitri. “What did you think I came in here for?”

“I was… not supposed to fight. I thought…”

Felix stares at him for a long moment. Exhales, and Dimitri can see his anger warring with… something else. Felix stops pacing at last. Sits down across from him. Still angry, still tense, but more restrained.

“Why weren’t you sitting in the marquee?” he asks. Dimitri does not see how that is related, but…

“There were not enough chairs.” Felix’s raised eyebrow says it all, and Dimitri elaborates. “A pregnant lady had been left to stand all day. I gave her mine. I could not just leave her like that. Nobody else stood, so I…”

Dimitri cannot go on. Cannot understand now why he was quite so furious – indignation would have been fair, but to throw everything entirely out of order… What is wrong with him? He looks down at the carpet. Finishes his explanation with a shrug.

“So you sat on the grass and gave her your chair,” Felix says. Less angry. More resigned. “You’re the _king_. You could have ordered more chairs to be brought.”

The obvious solution to the logistical problem. Not the real problem, though, not for Dimitri. Not the real reason he walked away, nothing to do with his disgust, or his fury, or the crushing weight of his despair… but he cannot tell Felix that.

“I know. I should have, but I was… disappointed. I just walked away.”

It takes Felix a moment to reply. Dimitri braces for another tirade – he _knows_ what he did was unreasonable. A stupid way for a king to behave. He braves a glance at Felix and -

Felix is just looking at him. Quiet. His expression complicated, again, or perhaps it is that he has drifted so far away that Dimitri can no longer read him. Cannot understand him.

“And the girl?” Felix asks.

“She brought me cake,” Dimitri says. Finishes, lamely, “I did not eat much.”

Felix leans back in his chair. Huffs out a breath, shaking his head. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“All right,” he says. “Leave the court to me. I’ll handle it.”

And that is that. Dimitri waits for more – an elaboration on what Felix will handle, at the very least, but no more is forthcoming. Instead Felix stands. Moves over to his piano.

Dimitri is missing something, something crucial. Forgets about it entirely when he sees the sheet music to _The Prince_ right there on the music stand. Beside an open book, because Dimitri plays it so often he keeps it readily at hand. Right where Felix can see it.

Dimitri leaps to his feet. Lunges forward, snatching it from the music stand and burying it beneath a pile of other music. Felix gives him a strange look, but Dimitri cannot explain himself. His hands are twitchy, traitorous. He tidies his music, trying to act as though that was his intent all along. Hiding _The Prince_ as well as he can manage it.

Logically, he knows that Felix has no way of knowing that Dimitri thinks of it as _his_ _song_. No way of knowing that the melody reminds Dimitri of him, haunts him the way Felix haunts him. That Dimitri plays it, over and over, with Felix’s face swimming in his mind’s eye, and only its melody eases the aching of his heart.

Dimitri still panics. And Felix is still looking. Giving him one of those thin-lipped, piercing looks. Dimitri is waiting for Felix to snap at him again.

Instead, Felix sits down at the piano. Back straight, nimble fingers settling on the keys, and Dimitri’s own hands still. Felix says nothing. But slowly, clumsily, he plays a ditty, a simple children’s song, on Dimitri’s piano.

Dimitri’s heart pounds. He has never heard Felix play. Never knew Felix _could_.

“It’s a good instrument,” Felix says when his fingers still. “That’s as much as I can play, though. I’m… sure you’re much better.” Felix is strangely halting, strangely awkward. Different, so different, than he was when he came into Dimitri’s rooms.

He is like whiplash. Throws Dimitri back and forth. Unpredictable as lightning, one minute angry, the next…

Felix’s eyes are almost golden, in this light. Beautiful, so beautiful, when they flicker towards Dimitri. Dart away again as Felix dips his head, looking back at the piano where his hands rest on the keys. Quick, almost… almost vulnerable. So close Dimitri can feel his warmth, so close he can breathe in the smell of his hair.

“Will you play something for me?” Felix asks.

Dimitri’s heart says _anything, anything_. Anything Felix asks, Dimitri would give him, if only Felix would look at him like that again.

But Dimitri’s fingers twist. His stomach clenches. Felix is not angry with him – no small miracle – but Dimitri is still… he cannot…

“Forgive me,” he says. “I have nothing to show yet.”

A beat. Felix nods. And slowly, he takes his hands off the piano.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Please note this chapter includes significant escalation of Dimitri’s mental health issues – see end notes for full details.*

Dedue returns from Duscur entirely without fanfare.

It is late. Another long day of meetings has passed. Dimitri climbs the stairs up to his chambers in a daze, exhausted as ever. Trying to process the events of the day while simultaneously preparing for the next one.

The summit is going the way these things always do – that is, slowly and painfully. But Dimitri has to keep his guard up, no matter how long it drags on. Has to pre-empt his lords and ladies, manoeuvre the conversation in such a way that he can block them from starting fights without causing offence himself. He is not good at it. Claude was much better at this sort of thing, at scheming and manipulating and predicting the movements of others before they knew it themselves. But he sailed off and left the Leicester Alliance to Dimitri, along with the entirety of the Adrestian Empire.

His territory is _huge_. Beyond anything Dimitri imagined, anything he could possibly have prepared for. The numbers alone make his head hurt because they are too large, so large they become abstract, even when they cannot afford to be. He cannot think of his citizens in terms of mere numbers, but there are – there are so _many_ of them. So many, all relying on him to lead them, and -

Dimitri opens the door to his chambers. Steps over the threshold before instinct screams at him that _someone is there_ – delayed, too slow. His hand grasps for the dagger he keeps hidden at his waist, his heart pounding with the realisation that if someone had been behind the door Dimitri would have been _too late_.

Then Dedue pokes his head out of Dimitri’s wardrobe, and the tension goes out of Dimitri in a great flood. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri almost laughs. Lets out a shaky breath and steps fully into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“I apologise for startling you,” Dedue says.

“No, not at all.” Dimitri’s heart rate is slowly coming down again.

“I have found several garments in need of repair. I will take them to the tailor tomorrow.”

It is almost surreal. It takes Dimitri’s tired mind time to parse that sentence, and to comprehend the scene unfolding after the gruelling day he has had. Dedue. Dedue is _here_ , pottering about Dimitri’s chambers and going through his possessions. No greeting, no news of his return – he has just come back after months away and buried himself in Dimitri’s wardrobe.

“Dedue, you are not my servant.” As welcomes go, it is not Dimitri’s best. Not how he imagined their reunion would go, certainly. He tries again, “When did you return? You must be tired. Please, sit down.”

“I returned an hour ago,” Dedue says. Turning back to Dimitri’s clothes so he may frown at one of Dimitri’s overcoats. Picking at loose stitching on the sleeve. “You have not been well cared-for in my absence.”

“They are just clothes. Must I remind you again you are not my valet?” Dimitri is too tired to manage his tone for long – it comes out too high, too strained, and Dedue’s eyes are on him at once.

“You have had a long day, Your Majesty. Allow me to take your cloak.”

“There is no need.” Dimitri hastens to undo its clasps before Dedue can try to remove it for him. “What news from Duscur?”

Dedue shakes his head. Gives a final disapproving look to the contents of Dimitri’s wardrobe before stepping out. He has to squeeze, for he is broader than Dimitri remembers, somehow even more muscular. Duscur food has been suiting him well.

“Later,” Dedue says. “I wish to inquire after your health first.”

“I am well, Dedue, I assure you.” Dimitri can already see from the look on Dedue’s face he does not believe him. Though knowing Dedue, nothing Dimitri says is likely to make a material difference to the way Dedue worries.

“I will make you some tea. Please sit down, Your Majesty.”

“Dedue,” Dimitri sighs. But he is too tired and wrung-out to muster any real form of protest. Dedue is steady, implacable, possesses seemingly endless amounts of patience. Arguing with him is like arguing with a mountain – he is equally immovable.

Still, Dimitri hesitates. Hovers in place as Dedue rifles through his travel bag, and Dimitri wishes he were more surprised to find that Dedue came straight to him the minute he got into the city. Dedue pulls out what looks like an entire apothecary of unidentified herbs. Takes another look at Dimitri, studying him, before selecting a few.

“Please sit,” Dedue repeats. “I will not be long.”

It is not right. Dedue must be exhausted, he should not be waiting on Dimitri. But Dedue pays him no further mind, materialising a mortar and pestle out of his bag and beginning to grind his herbs. A glance at the fire shows a kettle already coming to the boil, placed there long before Dimitri returned to his chambers. Dedue’s mind was already made up – Dimitri will not change it now.

Slowly, Dimitri sits.

The warmth of the fire lulls him. He does not drift towards sleep, not exactly, but his mind is quiet. In some sort of stupor, and he only jolts out of it when Dedue takes the kettle from the fireplace and pours water into a cup. He hands it to Dimitri and Dimitri looks into it, trying to make sense of the murky brown colour and unusual scent. Not tea as he knows it.

“I have taken the liberty of procuring medicinal herbs from Duscur,” Dedue says.

“I see.” Dedue is waiting, so Dimitri blows on it gently and takes a mouthful. Given the colour of it, in this instance his lack of taste may be a blessing.

“You look thin,” Dedue says. Frowning at him, despite Dimitri’s acquiescence with the tea.

“Do I?” Dimitri looks down at himself. It is a foolish impulse – he is fully dressed, completely covered. Still. Now Dedue mentions it, now Dimitri actually thinks about it, Dimitri has been looking… stringy.

Sir Wesley pops into his mind, as he so often does in these moments. Sir Wesley with his bulging muscles and healthy cheeks, full of strength and vigour. Handsome, with the kind of physique straight out of a romantic novel.

Dimitri tugs at his sleeve, pulling it further down his wrist. Tugs at his tunic, trying to pull it away from his skin. Trying to cover the shape of him with loose fabric, so nobody ever has to see it.

“I should not have left you. Not so soon after your illness.” Outwardly Dedue is as stoic as ever, but Dimitri knows him well enough to read his regret, his anxiety, his guilt.

“I have long since recovered,” Dimitri says. “Truly, Dedue, you worry too much.”

It took all of Dimitri’s persuasive power to get Dedue to go to Duscur at all. Even once the healers declared Dimitri safe, there was little he could do to calm Dedue’s anxiety. Dedue was ready to abandon everything he had worked so hard for, abandon his role in the rebuilding of Duscur, just because Dimitri took ill.

Dimitri is _fine_. But Dedue never believes him.

Dedue goes back to his pack. Pulling out more herbs and bunching them together, tying them with a piece of string. Goes to Dimitri’s bed and places them under Dimitri’s pillow.

“Dedue.”

“They will help you sleep.”

Dimitri watches him. Too tired to question it any further. Discomfited, but not enough to ask Dedue to stop. If it were anyone else handling his things, it would be an invasion, an intrusion, a desecration of his most private space. But it is Dedue.

“I did not know you were coming back,” Dimitri says. Not just tired, now, but sleepy in a pleasant sort of way – perhaps because of the tea. “You were not due to return for another… six weeks, was it not?”

“Five, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri yawns. Rubs at his eye. “Why did you come back, then?”

Dedue’s silence is telling. Dimitri sits up straighter, shaking his head in an effort to push the sleepiness away. There is something strange about this. Something just beyond his reach.

Dedue’s mission was important. Important not just to the kingdom, but to Dedue personally. It is he Dimitri tasked with leading the kingdom’s effort to rebuild Duscur, and Dedue worked so, so hard to make it happen. Spent long nights with Dimitri discussing policy, and public strategy, and the logistical difficulties of rebuilding a nation that was burned to the ground long ago. Dimitri has not heard a word from him that would suggest an early return – in fact, Dimitri was expecting quite the opposite.

“Dedue?” he prompts.

“It seemed prudent,” Dedue says. Too careful.

Dimitri studies him. The tense line of his shoulders. The way he will not look at Dimitri.

“Dedue, please. Sit with me.”

Reluctantly, Dedue does. He removes his travelling coat first, though, loathe to get dirt on Dimitri’s fine furniture. He sits down ramrod straight, his eyes cast towards the ground.

Dedue has not been so strange and stiff in Dimitri’s presence for a long time. Familiar dark whispers rear up at the back of Dimitri’s mind, blaming him, but he shoves them away. He has done nothing to push Dedue away from him, he reminds himself, for Dedue has not been around to offend.

“What are you not telling me?” Dimitri asks. Utterly without tact or guile, going straight to the point, but this is Dedue. There is no need to mince words.

Dedue sighs. Capitulates at once, never one to keep secrets from Dimitri. “I received a letter.”

“Yes? From whom? What did it say?”

Dedue shifts in his seat. “I fear it will displease you.”

Another pang goes through Dimitri, this one not so easily dismissed. Dimitri looks away. Stares into the fire, the pleasant sleepiness vanishing. “You do not need to fear me. I will not be angry with you.”

Dedue shakes his head. “You misunderstand my meaning. I do not fear you. But I do not wish to agitate you at this time of night. You need to sleep.”

Dimitri takes that in. Calms, just a little, though he still does not have his answer. “Just tell me. Please.”

Dedue’s reluctance is obvious, but he does not deny him. “Very well. I received a letter from Sylvain.”

Whatever Dimitri was expecting to hear, it was not that. He blinks, trying to comprehend it. Sylvain sent Dedue a letter? _Sylvain_?

“What-” Dimitri cuts himself off. Already he is too loud, and he promised he would not get angry. He says, quieter. “Go on.”

“He told me you were in low spirits, but you did not wish to speak to him about it. Thus, I have returned.” Dedue is watching Dimitri. Calm as ever, though there is a furrow in his brow. “There was no force. I returned of my own volition, Your Majesty.”

Low spirits. _Low spirits_.

Dimitri lurches to his feet. Paces around the room, his head whirling. He would have expected Dedue to return early because of – of political reasons. Food shortage, tense relations. Or even an illness or injury to Dedue himself. This is something else. It makes no sense.

Sylvain wrote to Dedue. _Sylvain_. He wrote to Dedue about _Dimitri_ and Dedue has returned early. Not because of something important, but because Sylvain thinks – what? That there is something _wrong_ with Dimitri?

Dedue is talking again, but Dimitri cannot hear him. Paces, wretched, _angry_. So breathlessly, terrifyingly angry. Blood is rushing in his ears.

Sylvain called Dedue back. Called him back from a critical mission, when he has no right to do so. _Interfered_ with the entire rebuilding of Duscur, because he must have known that Dedue would fly to Dimitri’s side given the slightest provocation. Why? Because Dimitri is in _low spirits_? Does Sylvain think Dimitri is incapable? Unfit for his duties?

(The shame is worse than the anger. Cuts deep, so deep. Dimitri cannot hide his weakness no matter how he tries, causes trouble for everyone around him, and he wants to _scream_.)

A hand clasps Dimitri’s shoulder. Dimitri whirls around, half wild, but – Dedue. It is just Dedue.

“Dimitri,” Dedue says. Strong, stabilising. When Dimitri does not pull away Dedue clasps his other shoulder too, restraining and comforting in equal measure. Dedue leans forward, pressing his forehead against Dimitri’s in the manner of the people of Duscur. A gesture of affection. Not something often shared with outsiders. Shared with Dimitri now.

Dimitri takes one gulping breath, then another. Reaches up, not to brush Dedue away, but so that he may grip Dedue’s arms in turn. Anchoring himself.

“You should not have come back,” he says when he is able. “Your work is too important for this. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“I live to serve you, above all else. You know this.”

Dimitri does. But the thing is, it was changing. Dedue was changing. Looking to the future, for himself and for his native people. Working towards a greater goal, a higher purpose than worrying after the state of Dimitri’s clothes. And Dimitri was so proud, so happy to see Dedue becoming his own man.

Then Dimitri got sick, and it ruined everything.

“I do not need you as my nurse-maid, Dedue, I-” But Dimitri has no more words to say. Cannot explain the maelstrom inside him.

Dedue squeezes his shoulders. “My work was almost done, and I have delegated the rest. I am happy to be back. I have missed you.”

Dimitri’s stomach churns with misery. But he cannot express it, not without sounding ungrateful, not without driving Dedue away. Because he has missed Dedue every bit as much.

“It was unnecessary,” he says. “But I have missed you too.”

\- - -

“Summon Margrave Gautier at once,” Dimitri commands the next morning.

It is early. The summit meetings are due to start in an hour, but Dimitri is pacing his office. He has barely slept. He has not eaten. His head is pounding but his mind whirls and whirls.

Sylvain had no right, _no right_ , to interfere. Dedue told Dimitri very little, but he can read between the lines. Dedue is straightforward, easily manipulated when it comes to Dimitri, so Sylvain must have – have used that knowledge to get Dedue’s compliance. Sylvain has some ulterior motive, some reason for intruding on the rebuilding of Duscur, and has fabricated some petty complaint in order to go about it.

(It is not because of Dimitri. It cannot be. He will not – it _cannot_ be that, because Dimitri is _fine_. He is fine, he is fine, he is fine.)

A servant comes in with a tray of breakfast, takes one look at him, and fumbles it. Manages to right herself with only a minor amount of spilling and deposits it on his desk. Bows her way out without so much as a word.

Sylvain clatters into his office a few minutes later. Dressed haphazardly, hair a mess, his expression decidedly alarmed. “Dimitri? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Dimitri pauses in his pacing. Curls a lip at him. “Margrave Gautier. Please, sit.”

Sylvain goes still. Stares at him as though awaiting a punchline but finds not a trace of humour in Dimitri’s face. Sylvain’s expression shutters. Careful, wary, as he sits down.

“Dedue has returned from Duscur,” Dimitri says. Resumes his pacing, unable to contain the energy radiating through every one of his limbs. It is not a pleasant energy. It crackles inside him like electricity, burning, sickening.

“Has he?” Sylvain says. Careful, very careful.

“He returned on your instigation.”

Sylvain cannot quite hide his surprise. He blinks, his mouth falling open, brow furrowing in obvious confusion. Then his eyes flicker. His expression smooths. He tips his head, casual, unassuming, but his eyes watch Dimitri like a hawk.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but you’ve lost me,” Sylvain says. “Dedue’s got his own thing going on, he doesn’t listen to a word I say.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Dimitri snarls. “You wrote to him, asking for his return from a critical mission in Duscur, which is decidedly outside your purview. You have no business interfering in matters of foreign policy.”

Sylvain tries a smile. Tries his usual charm. “Come on, Your Majesty, you know me. I try to avoid policy talk as much as possible.”

“Yet here Dedue stands, summoned by _your_ command. An order you have no right to give.”

“I didn’t. I think there’s been a misunderstanding, sire.” But Sylvain’s eyes flicker again, and Dimitri has known him too long for Sylvain to hide from him. Sylvain doesn’t want to talk. Is holding something back. Will weasel his way out of this if he can, but Dimitri will not let him.

“What you have done is beyond the pale,” he growls. Prowling around him, watching Sylvain grow tense. _Good_. “You have compromised many months of hard work, not to mention a staggering amount of resources. Do you have any idea how hard we have worked to win the trust of the remaining people of Duscur? How hard it has been to secure support for the rebuilding, given the anti-Duscur sentiment in the kingdom?”

“Of course I know. It wasn’t my intention to interfere. Believe me, Your Majesty -”

But Dimitri isn’t done. Cannot listen. Cannot stop the torrent of words leaving his mouth. Does not try to. “I thought you would rise to your post. Make yourself useful, make something of your life. Instead I find you interfering with sensitive, time-critical missions because of some _idle gossip_. I thought you had risen to your responsibilities, but you are as much a good-for-nothing as ever.”

Any trace of warmth or humour has vanished from Sylvain’s face. He is still as carved stone. “Are you done?” he says. “Or are you going to keep drawing conclusions and making a fool of yourself?”

Dimitri’s anger flares, dark and all-consuming. “Do not speak to me so, Sylvain, I warn you.”

“I’m your advisor, aren’t I? It’s my job to tell you the truth, even when you don’t want to hear it.”

Dimitri barks a laugh. Harsh, almost violent. “And I suppose that is why you wrote to Dedue about my _low spirits_. Or do you expect me to believe it was something other than a ploy to force his return? What are you planning?”

Before this moment, it had not occurred to Dimitri that this might be some sort of _plot_. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, they make sense. Terrible, awful sense, and he is right, he _must_ be right.

“Planning?” Sylvain repeats. Still playing dumb.

“You cannot hide from me. I see you now, snake, though you have played me for too long.”

“What are you talking about?” Sylvain says. “Do you even hear what you’re saying? It’s _me_ , Dimitri.”

This is it – _this_ is what Sylvain is trying to conceal. A _plot_. Dimitri’s mind is reeling with the revelation. Sylvain is up to something, it all makes _sense_ now. “You mean to betray me?”

Sylvain is on his feet. Fists clenched by his sides, his voice tight. “I’m nothing but loyal to you. I’ve always been. _Listen_ to yourself, Dimitri.”

Betrayal. It makes sense. It is the _only_ thing that makes sense, the one constant in Dimitri’s life. His step-mother. Edelgard. Now Sylvain. It is happening again, and Dimitri has been blind, so very _blind_. Trusted Sylvain, with so many things, with himself. And Sylvain is – is _scheming_.

“Do you mean to take the throne? To kill me?”

It makes sense it makes sense _it makes sense_

“For Goddess’ _sake_ , Dimitri.” Sylvain’s face is drained of blood. “Calm down, I – should I fetch Dedue?”

“Don’t you go _near_ him, traitor.”

Sylvain reaches for him, but Dimitri whirls away. His thoughts run too fast for him to catch. His hands are shaking, every fibre of his being on fire.

“Dimitri – come on, calm down. Please.”

Sylvain means to hurt him. To usurp his throne, to kill him. He cannot believe he did not see it until just now, but Dimitri will not let him, he _will not let him._ Every one of his instincts screams danger, and Dimitri is on _fire_.

“I wrote to him about _this_ , all right?” Sylvain is saying, oddly distorted, as though he is far away. “I didn’t ask him to come back. I just… Dimitri, _calm down_ , you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“You really are a good-for-nothing coward,” Dimitri spits. “You think you can kill me? Tell me now why I should not take your treacherous head from your shoulders.”

“You’re out of your mind. You’re _mad_ , Dimitri, do you even hear yourself? You’re raving like a lunatic.”

_Mad. Mad. Mad._

It is like a blow. A strike across the face, and Dimitri is suddenly, agonisingly still. Mad. Mad?

Sylvain is reaching for him again. Tentative. _Afraid_ , and he should be, except – except -

Traitor? Sylvain? No, no.

Dimitri jerks back to himself. Looks around. He is in his office – he had lost track of it, forgotten, somehow. He is sweaty, so sweaty his shirt is sticking to his back. His scalp hurts – Dimitri has been tugging at his hair. Somewhere a clock is ticking, and the morning sun shines cheerfully in through the office window.

Slowly, carefully, Sylvain comes closer. Pulls something out of Dimitri’s hands, watching him as one would a wild animal. Tense, ready to pull back at a moment’s notice.

It is – an ornament. Just an ornament. A sculpted metal flower gifted to him by Mercedes before she went to the church. _To brighten up your office_ , she had said. Dimitri does not remember picking it up. Does not know why Sylvain would want to take it.

Then Dimitri looks down. Finds he has squeezed so hard that the metal has punctured his glove. Punctured the skin below, and there is… blood. He is bleeding.

_Mad_ , Sylvain said. _Mad_.

“Goddess, Dimitri.” Sylvain’s voice is hoarse. “I didn’t think… I’m glad Dedue’s back, I didn’t realise you were this bad. I just thought…” He exhales. “You’re not right. I wrote to Dedue when I realised something was wrong, and maybe I should have asked you directly, but – you never _talk_ to me. I didn’t know what else to do, all right?”

“Get out,” Dimitri whispers.

Sylvain grimaces. “If you’d just-”

_“OUT_.”

Dimitri does not remember picking up his inkwell, either. Only realises he has thrown it when it shatters, shards of glass and black ink spraying everywhere. Oozing into the priceless rug at their feet.

Sylvain looks at it. Throws his hands in the air. “Fine.”

The door slams behind him. Dimitri’s breathing is coming faster and faster. He buries his face in his hands, and he feels sick, and his hands are shaking, and he cannot breathe, he cannot _breathe_.

The journey back to his chambers is a haze. He is a puppet, a caricature, forcing a rotten smile at the people he passes, fake, unreal. He takes the stairs up to his chambers at a run. Locks the door and yanks off his cloak and overlayers, too hot, too constrained, and he hears something tear but he does not _care_ anymore. He throws himself down onto his bed.

_Mad. You’re mad._

He cannot breathe. Cannot think. Dimitri just shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

\- - -

He wakes some time mid-afternoon. Opens his eye, bleary and confused to find himself blinking up at his ceiling in full daylight. His throat is sore, and his eye feels crusty. He rubs at it, slow and sleepy.

Then memory of this morning washes back over him, and Dimitri’s heart freezes in his chest. Oh Goddess. Oh _no_.

He cannot bear to think of what he said to Sylvain. What he _accused_ him of, but the words come back to him anyway. _Good-for-nothing. Snake. Prove to me why I should not take your treacherous head from your shoulders._

Dimitri threatened him. _Threatened_ him. Threatened his friend, his _subject_. Like a tyrant, violent, vile. Monstrous.

He presses a hand over his face. What was he doing? What was he _thinking_? _Traitor_ , he called Sylvain, but now not even Dimitri can follow the thread of his logic. He accused Sylvain of ruining the rebuilding of Duscur, of scheming, of wanting to _kill_ him, but none of those things make sense. At the time they were revelations, like some great epiphany, but now…

Now Dimitri knows better. Dimitri was having some sort of fit. Out of control, so consumed by his own emotion he was incapable of acting rationally. Paranoid, illogical, dangerous.

Dimitri is mad again.

He closes his eye. The wave of despair that washes over him is painfully familiar. His throat burns, and despite himself he can feel tears beginning to leak out. Dimitri is mad again. He cannot control himself. He is mad.

He hears the door open. Rolls onto his side so he can hide his face in his pillows.

“You are awake now, Your Majesty.” It is Dedue. Of course it is.

Dimitri does not reply, but he hears Dedue padding across the room. He sets what sounds like a tray down on Dimitri’s bedside table. Then Dimitri’s mattress dips, and Dedue’s hand squeezes his shoulder.

“You should eat something. You will feel better.”

Dimitri shakes his head. Nothing will make him feel better. Not now, not ever.

“I will feed you myself if I must.”

Dimitri shakes his head again. Hunches further into his sheets.

Dedue sighs. “As you wish.”

He withdraws with a final squeeze to Dimitri’s shoulder. Potters about the room, and there are gentle clatters, domestic noises, as Dedue tidies Dimitri’s things. The sound of rustling fabric from the direction of Dimitri’s wardrobe, Dedue pulling things off hangers – taking them to be mended, as he said he would. Then Dedue goes, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dimitri stays in bed for a long time. Breathing in the smell of whatever herbs Dedue buried beneath his pillow. Feeling the tears slowly leak from his remaining eye.

He thought he could control it. Could control the fractured, broken pieces of his mind. But he changed at the Tragedy of Duscur, broke irreparably with Edelgard’s betrayal. Lost everything, himself included. He was a fool to think he had gotten it all back again. A fool to think he could hide, and go on, and _live_ after all he has done.

Dimitri is a monster. A mad, cruel, violent monster. He is so tired. So, so tired. Of himself, of everything.

Dedue comes in again at some point. Takes the tray on his bedside and replaces it with another. He does not say anything this time, though he sets another cup of steaming medicinal tea by Dimitri’s bedside.

Eventually, the pressure in his bladder forces Dimitri out of bed. He washes his hands. Stares at his reflection in the mirror, and it is strange, sometimes, to realise the image looking back at him is _him_. That the bundle of bones and blood and flesh in the mirror is Dimitri in his entirety, all he is and ever will be.

Dimitri’s razor is missing from the washstand. Dedue must have taken it.

Huh.

That is not all he has done. When Dimitri steps back into the main room he finds Dedue has stripped it of sharp objects entirely. Even the dagger Dimitri keeps at his waist is gone, though he does not recall Dedue taking it. The door out onto his balcony is locked and the key, which usually sits in the keyhole, is missing.

Dedue has been busy.

Dimitri wipes at his face. Not crying, now. Empty. Hungry, in a distant sort of way, but he does not want to eat. Thirsty, too, so he takes a few mouthfuls of the medicinal tea Dedue left him. Owes him that much, at the very least.

He does not want to go back to bed now he is out of it. He sits down at his piano.

There are so many songs to choose from. So many it is almost paralysing, so he picks the one he plays the most. Felix’s song. Dimitri is having trouble reading the music today, having trouble focusing on the notes, but it does not matter. He has played this song enough that his fingers remember how to move.

The melody washes over him. Hopeful in its melancholy. Soothing. It feels good to play. Quiets his mind, eases the weight on his chest. He plays it over and over, easier with every repetition. Easier to play without thinking, and it fills the hollows and gaps inside of him with something else. It helps.

It helps.

It is a physical thing. Keeping time, keeping his hands steady. Moving them to the right places at the right time, sounding every key with equal care. He can feel the rhythm of it in his chest, in his heart.

Dimitri plays. And plays. And plays.

There is a knock on the door. Dimitri misses and hits the wrong note, and it keeps ringing, dissonant, until he removes his foot from the pedal. He looks at the door. Slow, trying to make sense of the intrusion. It cannot be Dedue, for Dedue has a key.

It might be Sylvain. Dimitri’s stomach clenches at the thought, sick, panicky. He does not want to talk to him. Does not want to talk to anyone, but especially not Sylvain. Perhaps he should just ignore it.

Another rap, sharper and louder. “Oi, Dimitri.”

Felix. It is Felix.

Slowly, Dimitri takes his hands off the piano. Dimitri looks down at himself, rumpled, half-dressed. Useless, lying about his chambers and wallowing in his own misery. He looks around – everything is tidy, at least, for Dedue has been here. He has removed the clothing Dimitri dumped so unceremoniously on the floor, and filled the room with plants instead. Some dried flowers, some fresh, few of which Dimitri recognises. Only Dimitri’s bed is unmade, his sheets a mess, but it would be easy enough to draw the curtains around it.

Still, Dimitri sits in indecision. He does not want to see Felix. Wants desperately to see Felix, his handsome face, his striking eyes. So sharp, so quick, yet a balm to Dimitri’s soul.

“Dimitri, I know you’re in there. Open up.” Irritated, impatient. Dimitri does not know how to refuse.

He stands. Pulls the curtains around his bed. Has a moment of panic when he realises he has lost his eye patch but – it is there, on a side table. Not where Dimitri usually keeps it. Dedue has found it and left it somewhere he knew Dimitri would find it.

Dimitri pulls it on, and goes to open the door.

Felix’s annoyed face greets him, but it lasts only a moment. Felix’s lips part. His eyes sweep over Dimitri, taking in the utter disarray of him. His hair loose and messy from lying in his bed. Dressed in nothing but his trousers and undershirt, exposing far too much skin, and only half tucked in at his waist. Dishevelled in every respect.

“Oh, I. Oh,” Felix says. He looks stunned.

Dimitri must look worse than he thought. But what does it matter, really? What does any of it matter? He is a pathetic wreck of a man. He is fooling no one.

“Hello, Felix,” Dimitri greets mechanically. That part, at least, is easy. He has been well-trained in politeness. “Come in.”

“I… I just came to check on you,” Felix says, uncharacteristically flustered. He lingers in the doorway. “I heard you were unwell.”

He does not sound annoyed, now. Just strained. The ties on Dimitri’s shirt are coming undone, and Dimitri has made no move to correct them. His shirt is precariously loose, steadily sliding down to reveal his shoulder, and Dimitri remembers how thin he is looking. How disgusting he is, scarred and too-thin and sallow, and how revolted Felix must be.

Felix looks like a rabbit caught in a snare. Trapped. His cheeks are flushing, and he looks at Dimitri as though he cannot look away. Like a man witnessing a disaster, unable to divert his gaze from the horror of it.

Dimitri needs to cover up. But he is too tired to care much, even for his own shame. He can hate himself for it later.

“It is just a headache,” Dimitri lies absently. He needs to sit down. Walks over to his armchair, letting Felix decide whether to enter or not. “I am fine.”

Felix clears his throat. “It’s-” he begins, then has to stop to clear his throat a second time. “It’s not like you to miss a meeting. And Dedue turned up unexpectedly, so I thought something had…”

The meeting. The _meeting_. “Oh, Goddess.” Dimitri presses his face into his hand. Rubs his forehead. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing important. I handled it.” Felix takes a step forward, then pauses again. Looks back over his shoulder at the open door, as though reluctant to be trapped alone with Dimitri – but then, Dimitri does not blame him. Felix seems to steel himself. Shuts the door. “Have you seen a healer?”

“I don’t need a healer.”

Felix’s face twists with anger. It rights him - he looks more himself, now, not so strange or tentative. “That’s what you said last time, and I remember very well how that turned out.”

“I am fine.” Dimitri says it a lot, but no one believes him. No one ever believes him.

“You don’t look fine,” Felix snaps, sharp and acerbic again.

Dimitri looks up at him from behind his hair. Their eyes meet, and Felix’s breath catches. Dimitri hears it stutter out of him in odd bursts. For a moment, Felix says nothing, as though he has been struck dumb.

Then Felix snaps his gaze away. Paces across the room, clasping his hands behind his back, to look out the window of Dimitri’s locked balcony.

“Just a headache? No other symptoms?” Felix asks. Clears his throat again.

Dimitri makes an affirmative noise. Reconsiders it. He does not want to lie to Felix, not so blatantly. Cannot tell him the truth, either. “I am… I am not myself,” he tries. “But there is nothing to worry about. Dedue is looking after me.”

“Well, he’s good at that, at least,” Felix mutters. He rubs his temple. Fixes Dimitri with a glare – but looks away again immediately, the anger wavering.

Felix is so strange, today. Anger is his one constant, the one thing Dimitri can be certain of between them. Somehow, Dimitri has ruined even that.

“I’ll send a healer if you get any worse,” Felix says.

Dimitri looks down at his hands. Turns them over, in his lap, taking in all the scars and calluses. Taking in the puncture wounds from the metal flower. In his hands, even the benign can become dangerous. “There is no need, I assure you.”

“Let it be for my own peace of mind,” Felix mutters, and Dimitri is too tired to make sense of him. He cannot even make sense of himself.

Felix moves away from the window and goes in the direction of the piano. The stool is still pulled out, Dimitri’s music on the music stand. Some of the books Felix and Annette gifted to him, open and full of bookmarks of all the pieces Dimitri would like to learn. The loose sheet music to _The Prince_ , Felix’s song, sitting right at the front. In the open, unmistakable. And this time, Dimitri is not quick enough to hide it away.

“Huh,” Felix says. Leans forward, studying it. “Borodin. He’s one of my favourite composers.” Felix turns to look at him. Tips his head to the side, his dark hair brushing his shoulder. “You play this?”

Slowly, Dimitri nods. Does not have the words to describe the feeling in his chest.

Felix looks back at the music. “ _The Prince_ … wasn’t this played at the concert?” Again Dimitri nods, and Felix looks pleased. “I knew I recognised it.”

He goes quiet. Dimitri gathers himself. It is hard, but…

“I liked it,” he says. Not much of a reply, barely a response at all. Still hard. Still vulnerable. Still an admission. Because every time Dimitri plays that song, he sees Felix’s face. Lit by the lights of the stage, soft with affection. Beautiful, so beautiful he breaks Dimitri’s heart.

Felix nods. Says, “You know, Annette and I are going to the opera tomorrow night. Not Borodin, but it should be good. You could come too.” For a moment, he looks excited. Like he does when he discovers a new sword technique, or when a worthy opponent enters the ring. Then he looks at Dimitri, and the excitement dies. “Only if you’re feeling better. I’m not having you doing anything stupid.”

The door opens before Dimitri can reply. Dedue comes back in, carrying yet another tray, as though he means to drown Dimitri in unwanted food.

“Felix. Good evening.”

“Dedue. Welcome back.” It is not heartfelt, not from Felix, but it is polite. He and Dedue are civil, these days.

“I bring you some soup, Your Majesty. Perhaps this will suit you better.”

Dimitri still does not want food, even though he is hungry. Soup, though, might be tenable.

“It is getting late,” Dedue continues, this time directed at Felix.

Felix looks at the clock. Startles. “So it is. I’ll leave you, then.”

“Goodnight,” Dimitri manages.

Felix bows, brisk, and strides out the door. Does not look back until he is in the process of shutting it behind him. Dimitri cannot read the look on his face, or understand why his eyes linger on Dimitri. But then Felix goes, and it is a moot point anyway.

Dedue sets the tray on a side table. Picks up the bowl and hands it to Dimitri, along with a spoon. Looks pleased when he takes it.

“Please eat, Dimitri,” he says.

The soup is smooth. Nothing Dimitri has to bite or chew, which would be too much energy. He takes a spoonful, swallows it. Dedue smiles.

“Thank you, Dedue,” he says quietly. For this, and a thousand things. No amount of thanks will ever be enough. “Dedue, I…”

There is so much he must explain. So much to go through – he still has not heard the news from Duscur. And he cannot imagine the gossip that must be circulating around the palace already. The dishonour, the disgrace he has brought down on his head, entirely of his own making. The things he said, the things he did. Sylvain…

Dimitri’s stomach clenches. He cannot bear to think of Sylvain. Sets his spoon aside, unable to stomach any more.

Dedue takes it up again. Presses it back into his hand, gentle yet unyielding. “We will talk tomorrow, Dimitri. Eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dimitri has a major mental health episode this chapter. This includes paranoia, disordered thinking, destructive behaviour, and rapid mood shifts. There is significant escalation in his depressive symptoms, including elements of suicidal ideation.
> 
> gotta get worse before it gets better! take care out there <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Same as last chapter. Please take care out there.

The following afternoon, Dimitri is back in his office. Not at the summit, where he should be. Not heading the meeting, and making judgments, and guiding the assembly.

This afternoon, he fulfills other duties. His quill scratches against the paper as he works through the endless pile of documents on his desk. Signing his name over and over.

 _Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd_.

He writes it so often the syllables become meaningless. Fragments of thought, shapes on paper. Lacking in rhyme or reason. He is tired, but he always is. He signs only that which requires no thought or analysis. A process of repetition.

He and Dedue talked for a long time, this morning. A long time. Dimitri is still working through it. Still raw, still gutted, too many things pulled out of the darkness and into the light. Hollow, somehow, as though Dedue’s quiet, gentle probing gouged something out of him. Jittery, twitchy, even with the steady cadence of Dedue’s guidance still fresh in his mind.

But he is taking Dedue’s advice, as best as he is able. Sitting here working in his office rather than at the meeting. A bargain. A compromise between what Dimitri wants and what Dedue says he needs.

Dimitri is mad. But he is a king, and there is work to do, and he must do it. No matter what, he must do it.

Dimitri sets aside his latest document. Pausing to take a mouthful of Dedue’s medicinal tea, to take a bite of the toast Dedue brought him. He chews it, even though he does not want to eat. He tastes nothing. Feels only the texture, the crunch of the bread quickly turning to mush in his mouth. Joyless.

But he does it. He swallows the mush down. Because he promised he would.

There is a knock on his door. Dimitri feels himself twitch, an odd spasm crossing his face. Another sign that he is a madman, and not one he wants shared with the rest of the world.

He takes a breath. Forces his mask back into place, cracked and broken as it is. Dimitri is a king. There is no escape from this. No escape from being needed at all hours, from working constantly, from people knocking and knocking and knocking on his door.

“Enter,” he calls, steady and authoritative. As normal as he can make it.

The door opens and Tabitha, his head servant, steps into the room. She bows, waiting for his permission before she takes a seat in the chair across from him.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty. I hope I’m not too bold in coming to you directly,” Tabitha says. “But with your aides occupied with the summit I’m finding it hard to get things done.”

“I encourage all my staff to come to me, as you know,” he says. “What may I do for you, Tabitha?”

“Most of our resources have been diverted to preparing for the ball. The head chef has taken the majority of my staff to assist in preparations.” There is a familiar tight-lipped look on her face – she and the head chef’s many rows are infamous. “We’re struggling to attend to our usual work. We provide weekly food baskets to the needy, as you know, but we don’t have time to pack them all. We’re going to have to start turning people away at the door.”

“Absolutely not. What needs to be done?”

Tabitha smiles. “I’ve already made the plan to re-allocate, Your Majesty. I just need your signature.”

She has come to him prepared. There is a reason she is the head servant – she thinks of everything. Makes plans for every possible contingency, anticipates his needs before he knows he has them.

Dimitri looks over the offered piece of paper. Carefully, because there is as much politicking going on in the belly of the palace as there is in the court. He is slower than usual – unfocused, rereading sentences more often than he would like, but fortunately the proposal is sensible. Chef will not be left empty-handed, though he may have to scale back on extravagances. He will be unhappy, and Dimitri has no doubt that he will get an earful about the intricacies of the menu in the near future, but his subjects come first. Always, always first.

Dimitri knows what it feels like to be hungry. Has lived amongst the poor, in the most desolate of slums, and the people there are as human as anyone else. Not _inferior_ , as some of the court would hold. Just people. Their suffering is untenable.

He signs. Hands it back to her, and she nods, satisfied.

“Are you hungry, sire?” she asks. “I can send something up.”

Dimitri blinks, confused by the segue. Sees her eyes on his plain buttered toast. Not a king’s fare. All he can manage. “I am sufficient, Tabitha. Thank you.”

“Don’t let Chef see you eating that,” she says, as blunt as ever. “He’d have a fit.”

It is not a joke. Chef would have conniptions if he saw Dimitri eating something so plain. But it is not that which grabs Dimitri’s attention, but Tabitha herself. Frank, straightforward, unflappable Tabitha.

When Dimitri took the throne, he found the palace in disarray in more ways than one. His uncle was a good-for-nothing philanderer, a weak man on most counts, but he had a cruel streak too. Then the war happened, and the palace was claimed by Imperial sympathisers, and conditions within grew even worse. Dimitri knows for a fact that there are still scars on Tabitha’s back from where she was flogged.

Yet here she sits. Looking Dimitri right in the eye.

“I rely on your discretion as ever, Tabitha,” he says.

He dismisses her with another word of thanks, and she bows to him, brisk, and strides out of his office with a satisfied look on her face.

Dimitri takes another breath. Rubs his temple. His head is heavy, but he forces himself to his feet anyway. Takes his cup of tea with him as he steps over to the window, looking out over the grounds.

He sips his tea, watching the people moving below. At work, at play, at rest. The whole world in motion, always in motion. In one of the meeting rooms, the trade summit goes on. In the depths of the palace, Tabitha will be delivering the bad news to a very disgruntled Chef. The breeze from the window carries with it the smell of spring blooms, and Dimitri breathes the scent in.

The world goes on. With or without him. _Too_ real, somehow, the scope of it so far out of Dimitri’s reach. He is drifting, disconnected, lost. A king, but… what does that matter, when all is said and done? He is supposed to be important, his title is supposed to _make_ him important, but he is just… this. Tired, and hollow, and mortal. The wind rustles the leaves of trees that were there long before he was born, and will be there long after he is dead.

He goes back to his desk. Goes back to his work. He does not know what else to do.

Dedue comes in a little while later. He nods approvingly at what little remains of Dimitri’s toast and tea. His arms are full of flowers again, and he begins to arrange them in a vase. Filling every one of Dimitri’s spaces with life and colour, though Dimitri does not see how it will help.

Then Dedue says, “Sylvain would like to speak with you,” and the bottom falls out of Dimitri’s stomach.

His face spasms again. His insides clench, and the empty space in his chest explodes into anxiety. He cannot – not today, he _cannot_ –

Dedue is still talking. It takes Dimitri a moment to understands what he is saying. “I told him today is not a good day. But he wishes to see you when you are available.”

Dimitri’s breathing is unsteady, and there is concern written all over Dedue’s face.

“He will forgive you, Dimitri,” he says. Has said so many times already today, over and over.

“You were not there,” is all Dimitri can say around the lump in his throat.

Dimitri is honest with Dedue. More honest with him than he is with anyone. Answered every one of his questions this morning, no matter how painful, because Dedue sees through his mask. Knows what questions to ask, and how to ask them, all without anger or judgment. Yet Dimitri could not repeat the words he spoke to Sylvain. Told Dedue everything else, but not that.

Sylvain reached out to Dedue because he was worried. Because he saw in Dimitri what Dimitri could not. Because he knew something was wrong, and he is Dimitri’s _friend_ , loyal and unwavering.

 _Good-for-nothing coward. Do you mean to kill me? Tell me now why I should not take your treacherous head from your shoulders_.

“Dimitri.”

Dedue is at his side, and – oh. Dimitri has snapped his quill. His hands are trembling. He has lost track again, as quick and easy as that.

Dedue reaches for him slowly. Sets his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, squeezing it. Relaxing when Dimitri meets his eyes, when Dimitri is capable of it.

“I believe you have done enough for today,” Dedue says.

“I have not finished my work,” Dimitri replies, because that is what he always does. There are so many hours left in the day. He does not know what else to do with them.

“It will keep.”

Dimitri wants to say no. Every fibre of his being screams at him to do so. There is _so much to do_ , as always.

But Dedue is looking at him. And slowly, Dimitri sets down the broken remains of his quill. Trusts Dedue, for right now he cannot trust himself.

He stands, and to his surprise Dedue pulls him close. Presses their foreheads against each other again. Affectionate. Worried, too, and it is another thing for Dimitri to feel guilty about. Dedue never chides him, but Dimitri knows all too well the burden he places on Dedue’s shoulders. Feels it keenly, just how much Dedue sacrifices for his sake. Dedue is the best man Dimitri knows – strong and brave and faultlessly kind – and without Dimitri weighing him down he could be so much more than what he is.

Dedue should be in Duscur. Tending to his people, to _himself_. His own future, his own goals, his own needs. But instead… instead he is here. Coaxing Dimitri through the basics of living, because Dimitri cannot even manage to _eat_ on his own. Lifting Dimitri up, and pushing himself down in the process.

“I am sorry, Dedue,” Dimitri says. A laughable apology – no words will ever be enough.

“No.” Dedue squeezes the back of Dimitri’s neck with his broad hand, forehead still pressed against Dimitri’s. He claps his other hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and just… holds him.

Part of Dimitri wants to push him away. Wants to shy from both Dedue’s hands and the _intimacy_ of this moment. The gentleness, the affection, because Dedue is – he is still Dimitri’s retainer, after all. The ambassador to Duscur. Still considers himself in Dimitri’s service, and Dimitri takes so much already, he does not want -

Then Dedue pulls back a little. Studying Dimitri’s face, squeezing him a little too tight. As though it is not for Dimitri’s sake he holds him, but for his own.

“Come,” Dedue says, letting him go.

Dimitri tidies the work he has done today into one clear pile. Leaves the rest, because Dedue is waiting for him. Standing by the door, patient but purposeful, and he will not leave here without Dimitri. Dedue has decided Dimitri is done for the day, and so Dimitri is done.

But then there is another knock on his door. Always, always another knock. No rest, not as long as Dimitri lives.

Dimitri scrubs a hand over his face. Meets Dedue’s eyes, and the communication that passes between them is wordless. Despite his displeasure, Dedue inclines his head and opens the door, blocking it with his frame.

“Ah, good – good afternoon, my good sir.” It is Sir Wesley, of all people. _Sir Wesley_. That throws Dimitri for a loop. What could he possibly want?

Sir Wesley sounds equally surprised to find himself face-to-face with Dedue. Dimitri has never heard him stammer like that, and for a moment he wonders if he the knight will spew some hateful anti-Duscur slur – and if he does, Dimitri will have his _head_ _-_ but Sir Wesley recovers quickly.

“My apologies to disturb you, but I wondered if I might speak with His Majesty.”

Calm, polite. Not aggressive or disdainful, though Dimitri’s gut still simmers with dislike. Not a fair or rational feeling, for Sir Wesley is not the first to be stunned by Dedue’s sheer physical presence. Is probably not accustomed to being so dwarfed.

Still. Still. Dimitri does not like him, fair or not. And though there is nothing in Sir Wesley’s conduct to which he may attribute blame, the feeling does not go away.

He can feel his lips curling upwards. Forces them back down, weighing his options, as Dedue says, “A moment,” and shuts the door in Sir Wesley’s face.

Dedue turns to him. Does not speak, but tips his head in silent question. Asking Dimitri what he would like to do. Giving him the choice.

Dimitri dithers. Torn between duty, and dislike, and his own endless exhaustion. He does not want to see anybody, not really, but a knight has come to him. If it were anyone else, anyone other than Sir Wesley, there would be no decision to make – Dimitri would see them at once. Whether a knight of the church or one of his own, a knight does not call upon the king idly.

That, ultimately, is what makes Dimitri’s choice. He has a duty. No matter how he feels, he has a duty.

“I will see him,” he says. He sits back down at his desk, composing his expression as best he can.

“I will wait outside,” Dedue says. Then he opens the door again, gesturing Sir Wesley inside.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Wesley says. Bowing with a flourish, as he always does. Tossing his golden hair back from his face when he straightens up, as dashing as ever.

He really is the picture of a knight from a storybook. Tall, muscular, handsome. His jaw is very square, his eyes very blue, and above all else he is charming. He is everything that Dimitri, too-thin and messy and _mad_ , can never hope to be.

No – Dimitri cannot afford for his thoughts to go down that path. Not now, not while he can barely hold his mask in place.

“Good afternoon, Sir Wesley,” Dimitri says. His fingers twitch, and he sets them in his lap, hidden from Sir Wesley’s sight. “Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, sire. I apologise for calling upon you without warning, but I understood that you were taking visitors in your office this afternoon. I have been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you privately for some time.”

Not urgent, then, not a threat requiring Dimitri’s immediate attention. Something in Dimitri uncoils.

“Of course,” he replies. “How is your arm?”

The arm Dimitri injured at the tournament when he threw Sir Wesley to the ground with a particularly brutal strike.

“It is well, sire, I thank you. Your healers are a fine sort indeed.”

Dimitri inclines his head, and it takes him several moments too long to piece together his reply. Without the sense of immediacy that comes with readying to handle a threat, his thoughts are clouding again.

This is run-of-the-mill. A civil conversation. It should be easy – but it is not.

“I am glad of it. How may I assist you, sir?” he manages. “We may speak now, if the matter is brief, but if not we can make another time.”

It is a cop-out. A show of weakness. But if the matter is truly not urgent, then Dimitri can handle it another day.

“I had prepared quite a speech, Your Majesty, but perhaps a brief conversation is for the best. I am often told I talk too much.” Sir Wesley smiles as if to share a joke, his eyes twinkling. Dimitri cannot muster a smile back. “I have greatly enjoyed my time here in Fhirdiad. It is an honour to be amongst such fine, upstanding people as this. Indeed, I could scarcely believe my good fortune when I was assigned to come here – but already I go on too long.”

Sir Wesley shifts in his seat. Takes a breath, as though he is gathering his thoughts.

“Your Majesty, you must know how deeply I admire you. I have heard great tales of your deeds. A warrior of great renown, a king of mercy and honour. You are a man beyond reproach -”

“I am not.” The words are out of Dimitri’s mouth before he can stop them, an immediate reminder of his own instability. But he cannot endure the man’s flattery. He feels sick enough as it is. “I know what I am, Sir Wesley. As do you. Come to your point.”

Sir Wesley looks taken aback. Rallies quickly. He tries one of his smiles again, aiming, as usual, for charming. “Indeed, your modesty is just one -”

“Sir Wesley. If you have a request, then make it. If not, we will speak another day.” Dimitri’s fingers twitch again under the desk. He is too cold, too blunt.

Still, better than yesterday. Much better than how he conducted himself with Sylvain – and at the thought of him, Dimitri’s stomach clenches again.

“I… I see,” says Sir Wesley. “As you wish, sire.”

Dimitri has thrown him. For a moment, Sir Wesley loses his vibrance. Even his hair seems to wilt.

It is only a moment.

“Your Majesty, I come to offer myself unto your service. I wish to join the knights here in Fhirdiad. It would be the highest of honours to serve you.”

Dimitri blinks. Whatever he was expecting the knight to say, it is not that. He leans back in his chair. Studying Sir Wesley, still battling through the fog in his own mind. Unwilling to jump into anything too quickly.

“I thought there was no higher honour than serving the Church of Seiros,” he says at last.

“Serving a noble and just king such as yourself, sire, is an honour equally high.”

It is a fair request. Sir Wesley is hardly the first to come to him and offer their services. But… Dimitri shifts in his seat, his mind whirling. He has seen how Sir Wesley chases Felix. Chases and chases him, and it is _not Dimitri’s business_ and yet -

“I suppose this has something to do with the Duke Fraldarius?”

Sir Wesley freezes. _Freezes_ , if only for a second, and Dimitri’s heart thuds. He is right. He is _right_ , and he can feel his lip curling up again. Not his business. _Not his business_. Felix would be furious if he saw this, and rightly so, for Dimitri has no business interfering.

“We are old friends, sire,” Sir Wesley says. Trying to charm him, but it will not work. “The duke is… well, standoffish with me at present, I do not deny it. But that is not why I am here today. I wish to serve you, sire. You are a man I would be proud to have as my master.”

His words wash over Dimitri. Pointless, meaningless, in the face of everything Dimitri knows. “I have seen how you chase him.”

Sir Wesley’s smile fades. Wary, confused. Because Dimitri is the king, and he is prying into his _love affairs_. With a jolt, Dimitri remembers himself. Remembers his station, and who he is speaking to, and exactly how inappropriate he is being.

Felix would be furious. Would never forgive him for prying like this, for judging where he has no right to judge. Dimitri is out of control, his mind unsound. Too mad to make a reasonable decision about a man he does not like.

Dimitri stands abruptly. Sir Wesley follows suit, as courtesy dictates, but Dimitri cannot look at him. Goes over to look out the window, wrestling with himself. Trying to force himself back under control.

“I will consider your proposal. Thank you, Sir Wesley, you are dismissed.”

It is the best Dimitri can do. The only peace offering he has within him. But Sir Wesley does not go.

“I assure you I am eminently qualified, sire. If you have a moment, I would happily take you through my -”

“Do not push me, Sir Wesley,” Dimitri says, too dark by far. Pulls it back, just barely, but far too late. “I will consider it. Go.”

A moment of silence. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I thank you for your consideration. Good afternoon.”

Even with his back turned, Dimitri knows Sir Wesley is bowing. He hears the office door open and close again. Familiar heavy footsteps as Dedue steps back into the room.

Sir Wesley is gone now. It is just him and Dedue, and Dimitri presses his head against the glass. He wants to slide himself onto the ground where he stands, and not bother to get up again.

He cannot even be civil anymore. Cannot have the most basic of conversations without breaking something. Politeness is all Dimitri has, the only shield between him and the rest of the world, the only disguise. But even that is failing him.

“I am so weak, Dedue,” he says.

Dedue’s hand settles on his shoulder. Squeezes, without judgment, without criticism. No matter how many mistakes Dimitri makes. “Come, Dimitri.”

Dimitri cannot meet his eyes. Feels sick again, in a distant sort of way. But he goes.

\- - -

That evening, Dimitri stares into his wardrobe, into the endless sea of black. He has spent the last few hours just passing time. Sitting at his piano, wandering his chambers, looking out the window. Doing nothing of any importance. Making no decisions.

The only thing he needs to do now is decide on what to wear. But confronted with the enormity of his wardrobe, Dimitri just stares.

The opera. He is going to the opera. With Annette. With _Felix_. Felix, who is effortlessly handsome no matter what he wears, whether in his finery or his roughest riding clothes. Drawing eyes everywhere he goes. Distracting Dimitri’s staff because he is so beautiful, sending the ladies of the court aflutter every time he walks by.

Dimitri is supposed to stand beside him. Not equal, never equal, but at least… _acceptable_. Dressed well, clean, put together. No amount of fine clothing will ever render Dimitri handsome, but he is supposed to look respectable.

He does not even know where to begin. It is the most minor of decisions, utterly inconsequential, and yet he is breathing too fast. His palms are beginning to sweat, and his thoughts are speeding out of control.

“Dimitri?” Dedue says from behind him.

Dimitri already asks so much of him. Has told him a thousand times that Dedue is not his valet, but – “What should I wear?”

Dedue gazes into Dimitri’s wardrobe, humming thoughtfully. Scanning its contents, slow and methodical, as though the question is actually worth consideration. Carefully weighing his options, because Dimitri asked for his help.

He picks out a soft undershirt and trousers of a similar fabric. Both black, of course, and both entirely unadorned. He holds them up and nods to himself, handing them to Dimitri.

“Put those on,” he says, and Dimitri does.

Selecting an overlayer takes Dedue longer. He considers Dimitri’s tunics for a while before shaking his head again and moving onwards. Into Dimitri’s overcoats, thumbing through them with utmost seriousness and concentration.

Dimitri hovers. Foolish, helpless, but Dedue does not laugh. Does not scoff, or roll his eyes, or disdain him.

“Hmm.” Dedue takes out a coat, still on its hanger, and holds it up. Puts it back again and moves onto the next.

After some consideration he selects an item from the very back of Dimitri’s wardrobe. An overcoat made of buttery-soft leather, and if not for the silver adornments it would resemble a poor man’s travelling coat rather than something made for a king. But its buckles gleam, and there is intricate embroidery upon the sleeves. Every one of its buttons is fine, polished silver. It is tailored immaculately, long enough that it reaches Dimitri’s mid-thigh, broad at the shoulders and cinched in at the waist.

Dimitri has only worn it once, when it was first given to him. A gift from a visiting diplomat, a demonstration of his native people’s leathercraft. It is an unusual item of clothing, one likely to draw attention. It is… _flashy_.

“Are you… are you sure?” Dimitri says. Hesitant to take it from Dedue’s outstretched hands.

Dedue just nods, so Dimitri takes it. Pulls it on, and he has not looked in the mirror yet, but he already feels foolish. Exposed, because the fit is tighter than he usually wears, form-fitting no matter how he tries to pull it away from his skin.

He must look ridiculous. It sits looser on him than the first time he wore it – Dedue was right about him losing weight – but it is still too tight. Exposing. But just as Dimitri is about to take it off, Dedue looks up from where he is ferreting around the bottom of the wardrobe for shoes.

“Perfect,” he says.

Dimitri pauses. Twitches – he hopes the twitching will not be a lasting feature. Losing his mind is bad enough without his body spasming out of his control. Then Dedue hands him a pair of boots, and Dimitri stops fidgeting with the overcoat. Pulls them on obediently, avoiding Dedue’s gaze. Wishing he had just thrown on what he usually wears. Something bulky and warm and neutral.

He just… he is going to the opera, and he wanted to look…

Dimitri is stupid sometimes.

“Wear that,” Dedue says. He sounds satisfied, and Dimitri wants to trust him, but…

“Are you _sure_?” he blurts out.

Dedue nods. Says, “Brush your hair,” and begins to tidy Dimitri’s clothing, putting everything back in its proper place. Far too good to Dimitri, as he always is.

Dimitri goes into his washroom. Takes a breath before he forces himself to look in the mirror. His face is pallid, sunken, his cheeks too hollow. The dark ring under his eye is even worse than it was. Dimitri’s hair hangs in limp strings about his face, and though brushing tidies it, it does not help.

Dimitri was right – the clothing has not improved him. It has not made him dashing, or glamorous, or even just _better_. If anything he looks worse than before, because now he is looking for it he can see the strange dullness in his eye. A look that betrays the fractured mess of his mind.

How did he not see it? How could Sylvain see it – and his heart lurches once again at the thought of him - when Dimitri could not?

Dimitri is a madman, he can see it written on his own face. He has not hurt anyone, not yet - no one but himself, and that hardly matters - but he cannot expect it to stay that way. For now he is hollow, but what happens when the paranoia comes back? When he falls into the realms of delusion? When he raves and rants and sees conspiracies where there are none?

Dedue is out there, pottering quietly around Dimitri’s chambers. Felix and Annette are coming to get him for a night out – for fun, for pleasure. Sylvain… Dimitri feels sick. Forces himself to think it anyway. Sylvain took Dimitri out too. Lounged with him on a picnic blanket. Laughed with him, easy and companionable and _loyal_. Sent a letter to Dedue, innocuous, concerned. Dimitri’s friend. And in repayment, Dimitri threatened his life.

Dimitri is bent over the washstand. Breathing into his hands, trying to muffle his choking noises. He is a danger to the people who care for him. A _danger_. He does not want to hurt them. Cannot bear the thought, and please, Goddess, _please_. He would rather die than hurt them. Anything, _anything_ but that.

“Dimitri?” Dedue speaks quietly. Carefully. So unbearably gentle, because he _knows_. He knows.

Dimitri straightens. Wiping his face with his hands. Splashing water on it when that is not enough and scrubbing, as though it will wipe away his sins.

“Forgive me,” Dimitri says. Trying, with little success, to compose himself. “I think I had better stay in tonight.”

Dedue is quiet for a moment. The washroom is too small to accommodate them both, so he lingers in the doorway. Watching over Dimitri, as he always does, but what if some day – what if Dimitri, in his madness, harms _Dedue_ -

“You like Felix and Annette,” Dedue says. “And you will enjoy the opera.”

“I am not…” Dimitri scrubs his hands over his face again. Hiding it from Dedue’s eyes.

“It will do you good to get out of your chambers,” Dedue says. “You will be disappointed tomorrow if you do not go.”

He is right. Of course he is. And logically Dimitri knows that Felix and Annette have already seen him at his worst anyway, so his moodiness will hardly come as a surprise. But Dimitri still cycles through angry, and panicky, then back to misery in dizzyingly rapid succession, because part of him thought Dedue would let him off the hook.

“All right,” he mutters. Ill-tempered, and it is yet another thing to be guilty about later.

“Are you sure you do not wish for me to accompany you?” Dedue says.

Dimitri thinks about it. Shakes his head. Dedue has done enough for him as it is. Fed him. Dressed him. Hovers in the doorway, while all of Dimitri’s broken ugliness is on display.

“Then I hope you have a good evening,” Dedue says.

When Dimitri exits the washroom, Dedue hands him his cloak. As steady as ever, but Dimitri does not miss the strained look about his eyes. The tension that Dedue is so loathe to show him, for Dimitri is enough to try even Dedue’s patience sometimes. Difficult, always so difficult.

Dedue deserves so much better than this.

Dimitri forces a smile onto his face. Feeling it wobble despite his best efforts. Then he goes without further complaint, heading downstairs and towards the front doors.

A glance at a clock on his way out shows him that he is running late. But it cannot be helped, now. He does not have it in him to quicken his step.

When he gets outside, he finds the carriage is already waiting for him. And there, leaning against it, is Felix. Strikingly, devastatingly handsome in his dark coat, his hair pulled back from his face. His arms crossed, leg tapping impatiently. Huffing out a breath, no doubt irritated by Dimitri’s tardiness.

Then he sees Dimitri. And he goes utterly still.

Dimitri looks away. Staring at his own feet as he makes his way down the stairs. Not looking at Felix, for one glance at him was enough to make Dimitri’s palms sweat again. And he can feel Felix watching him. Watching him and the flashy leather overcoat Dedue talked Dimitri into, sitting far too tight on Dimitri’s frame. He can feel his cheeks reddening under the scrutiny.

“Evening,” Dimitri mumbles when he is close enough. Takes a steadying breath, and forces himself to look up through the veil of his hair.

It is exactly as he feared. Felix _is_ staring at him. Eyes wide, lips parted. Dimitri looks down again.

“… Evening.” Felix clears his throat. His voice is gruff. “Uh - Annette’s not coming. She cried off. She said she was sick or something.” Felix already sounds irritated. He says the words all in a rush, practically daring Dimitri to object.

“I… I see. Do you wish to cry off as well?” Dimitri’s stomach sinks, and he feels more foolish than ever. Torn between relief, because that would mean he could go back to his chambers, and misery, because that would mean his relationship with Felix is so ruined that Felix cannot endure him alone.

He is getting distracted again. Almost misses Felix’s reply.

“No, I’m just explaining,” Felix huffs. “I didn’t want you to think – you know. Now come on. We’re running late.”

Dimitri can hear the scowl in his voice. But Felix climbs into the carriage without further ado, and Dimitri follows him slowly. Settles into his seat, fiddling with his gloves.

The carriage begins to move, and neither of them speak. Felix looks out the window, his leg tapping restlessly, and when Dimitri glances at him from the corner of his eye he can see Felix’s expression is dark. Dimitri looks out the window, trying to get his breathing under control.

They are silent. Dimitri does not know what to say. He thought – he thought Annette would be here. Thought that she and Felix could speak with each other, at least, while Dimitri sat on the sidelines and listened in, even if he had nothing to contribute. Dimitri should have brought Dedue. Should not have come in the first place. Should have worn something sensible, because Felix keeps _looking_ at him – quick, darting glances out of the corner of his eye - and Dimitri is _stupid_.

Felix folds his arms. Crosses one leg over the other, so obviously, inescapably annoyed. He huffs, loud in the otherwise silent carriage.

Dimitri does not know what to do. He feels sick, really sick this time. He presses a gloved hand over his mouth.

“Are you all right?”

The motion has caught Felix’s attention. Dimitri lowers his hand slowly, even as his stomach rolls. Stares into his lap, at the way his legs rock and sway with the carriage.

He does not have a chance to reply before Felix is speaking again. Sharp, irritated. “I told you not to come if you weren’t well.”

“I am all right.”

“Ugh. I _knew_ it was a mistake to invite you.”

Dimitri’s entire body goes cold. It feels like something has pierced his heart, and for a moment it is hard to breathe.

He is frozen. He is ice. He cannot even feel his stomach churning anymore. Says, though lips that are barely moving, “I am sorry to disappoint you, Felix. We can turn the carriage around, if…”

Dimitri cannot finish his sentence. His hands are beginning to shake, and he clasps them tightly together. He has to keep it together. Has to, has to, has to.

 _I knew it was a mistake to invite you. A mistake to invite you. Mistake to invite you_.

“We’re already on our way. Might as well see it through, but you’d better not throw up.”

Dimitri nods his head. Unable to speak without doing exactly that. He is shaking, now. Shaking.

He is – he is so _stupid_.

“What’s that face for?” Felix snaps.

“I am sorry,” Dimitri says. An instinctive response. His face is still numb. He cannot feel his lips. “To force my company upon you.”

“What are you on about? I invited you, didn’t I?” Felix is irritated. But then, suddenly, his voice changes. “I – oh. I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.” Felix shifts in his seat. Pushes back loose tendrils of hair back from his face. “I meant that you’re a stubborn fool with no self-preservation instinct, not that… not that I didn’t want you to come.”

He sounds… awkward. Annoyed, and stand-offish, and _awkward_. So desperately, unbearably awkward.

And… oh. Oh. Felix was just worried. Worried about Dimitri’s health, because he knows Dimitri is unwell. That is what he meant. Dimitri misinterpreted.

Dimitri unthaws. So sudden it is disorientating in its own right, but even worse is the wave of embarrassment when he realises how that must have looked. Because Felix is _awkward_ , now. Dimitri is over-sensitive and volatile, taking insult when none is meant. Making things between them uncomfortable again.

“Oh,” Dimitri says. Still stupid. “I… I am glad.”

Silence falls. The carriage rocks and rattles. Felix shifts in his seat again, and Dimitri stares down at his hands. Exhausted from the latest swing of his mood, the sudden back and forth, emotion so real and visceral one moment then vanished the next.

Dimitri really is mad. And everything is _so awkward_.

He chances a glance at Felix. There is colour on Felix’s cheeks. His gaze is fixed out of the window. Dimitri looks back down.

“Have you had much success with the piano books?” Felix says after a moment. Followed quickly by, “It – it doesn’t _matter_. I just wondered.”

“I have,” Dimitri says. “They are perfect. I hoped to thank Annette tonight.”

He gives Felix the best smile he can manage. Better than the one he gave Dedue, but not by much. For a moment, Felix’s brow furrows and he tips his head, almost as though he is confused. Then his forehead abruptly smooths out. “Oh – yes, of course.”

They are quiet again. Dimitri sneaks another look at Felix – at his profile, lit by the lamplight from outside the carriage. So handsome. So distant. Too close and too far both at once.

“What are we seeing tonight?” he asks. It is hard, so hard, but he has to do it. Has to at least try to seem normal. To act like himself, even if he does not feel it.

“ _The Libertine_ ,” Felix says. “It’s one of my favourites. I think… I think you’ll like it.”

He is strangely hesitant. Fiddling with his sleeves, and for a moment it looks as though… as though he is _shy_. Felix, barbed-tongued and quick-witted and lightning-fast. Felix, proud and impenetrable, unapologetic in his opinions, as fierce and sharp as his blade. Impossible, unstoppable, inimitable Felix.

Not shy. Dimitri is too consumed by his own changing moods – he should not try to interpret anyone else’s.

“I am sure I will,” he says. “We both enjoy Borodin, after all.”

It is a stupid thing to say, and he regrets it immediately. They share _one song_ in common. It is hardly a great feat, hardly worth mentioning. Dimitri is hopeless. Not charming, not like Sir Wesley – and at the thought of the knight Dimitri remembers their conversation this afternoon, how furious Felix would be if he knew what Dimitri said, and Dimitri’s thoughts spiral down that path, but then -

But then Felix _smiles_ at him. Small and sudden, his eyes bright and golden. He smiles.

Dimitri’s thoughts grind to a halt. His heart pounds, so hard it is almost painful. But for one, blessed moment, his mind is silent.

“Is that coat new?” Felix says. Suddenly, and his follow-up is even quicker. Oddly rushed, his cheeks flushing. “I haven’t seen it before, that’s all.”

“Oh – no,” Dimitri says. Hunching in on himself, as though he has any hope of concealing it now. “I have had it for a while. I just… do not wear it much.”

“You should,” Felix says. Dimitri is silent, stunned, and Felix turns back to look out the window. Clearing his throat, his leg bouncing again.

 _You should_ , he said. Perhaps… perhaps this overcoat is not as terrible as Dimitri feared.

The foyer of the opera house is packed when they arrive. Whispers abound the moment Dimitri steps inside. _The king, the king is here_ , _the king_. People crane their necks to get a look at him. Stare at him as he passes. Whisper and whisper and whisper behind their hands.

“Ugh. Big crowd,” Felix says, and leads the way forward.

It is not as difficult as Dimitri thought it would be. Not like the palace, where nobles fall all over themselves to get Dimitri’s attention, physically blocking him if they have to. Here, people are scrambling to get out of his way.

A lady drops her shawl in her haste to move aside, and Dimitri picks it up. Bows as he hands it back to her, and she is frozen so still he practically has to drape it over her hands, much as one would a statue.

“Come on,” Felix says when he turns and finds Dimitri has fallen behind. Flicks a glance at the lady, his lip quirking, though the look he fixes Dimitri with is impatient. “Do you want a drink?”

“Oh, no thank you.”

“Let’s go in, then.”

Felix cuts through the crowd decisively, a man on a mission. It is a relief – Dimitri is already feeling stressed by the noise and size of the crowd. Fortunately Felix shows no signs of wanting to linger and chat, as everyone else seems to be doing.

Their tickets are for aisle seats, but the house manager comes rushing out as they head towards the hall doors. Curtseying with her cheeks bright red, stammering out offers of a box. An offer she cannot make good on without difficulty. It is a full house – there are none left available.

“But I am sure other patrons would be delighted to offer theirs to you, You Majesty,” she says.

“That will not be necessary,” Dimitri says through his usual pang of melancholy. His mere _existence_ causes uproar. He can feel eyes watching him from every corner of the room.

Felix is a balm in these circumstances. So abrupt and forthright that Dimitri need say very little. So decisive that Dimitri has no time to dwell on his darker thoughts.

“We have our tickets,” Felix says. “May we be seated now?”

“Of course, of course,” says the manager, and escorts them to their seats herself.

Dimitri feels calmer once he is in his chair, the rest of the crowd steadily trickling in. There is a gentle feeling of excitement, of anticipation, and despite the poor state he is in he finds the feeling is not beyond him, either. Dull, perhaps, but some of the weight on his chest recedes.

Only a little. A precious little. But any reprieve is sorely welcome, and he finds it easier to make small talk.

“You have seen this one before, I take it?” he says to Felix.

“Several times. It’s – I won’t spoil the story. But it’s one of the better ones I’ve seen in an opera. You know how ridiculous they can get. ”

“They do tend towards the melodramatic.”

“Complete nonsense,” Felix agrees. Emphatic, but not irritated. If anything, he seems… excited. “But the music is excellent. Some of my favourite arias are from this opera.”

“I look forward to hearing them.”

For a moment, Dimitri is distracted again by the crowd. In his peripheral vision, he can see audience members standing up and straining their necks in an attempt to get a look at him. Dimitri shrinks in on himself again – the opposite of kingly, a shameful display – but Felix notices them too. Fixes someone a few rows back with a glare, and looks satisfied when they take their seat. Turns back to Dimitri, and keeps going where they left off.

“This production’s been getting rave reviews,” Felix says. Low, and Dimitri finds himself drawn into the cadence of Felix’s voice. The way the light flickers across his cheeks. The smell of him, his cologne spicy and masculine and so very _him_. “I was put on a waiting list for tickets.”

“I am sorry Annette is missing it,” Dimitri says.

“Don’t be too sorry for her. She’s a pain.” Felix’s expression darkens briefly, but there is no real heat behind it. Felix adores Annette. “She’s always on my back about something.”

“She cares for you a great deal,” Dimitri says. Felix gives him a look – brow quirked – but Dimitri does not know what to make of it.

He does not think on it long. The family whose seats are allocated beside them shuffle along the aisle – a family of five – and he and Felix stand to let them pass.

Given how full the hall is, Dimitri wonders briefly how Felix planned to get a third ticket in the first place. The evening was supposed to be for three of them, after all. But then a little boy, in the process of being ushered past them by his wide-eyed parents, points directly up at Dimitri.

Says, with the volume, confidence and shamelessness exclusive to very little children, “That man has an eye patch.”

“ _Shh_ ,” his father hisses immediately. “Come on, Fabian, now. Into your seat.”

He is clearly mortified, grabbing desperately at his son, but the boy just looks surprised. Baffled that his observation should be met with a reprimand.

And Dimitri… he finds himself smiling, just a little. Helpless, unbidden. There is no spite or ill-intent here. The child is not afraid of him. Not afraid, even though Dimitri is so tall, and dressed all in black, and wears an eye patch. Not afraid even though Dimitri is the king. The boy is just curious, and there is no harm in that.

“I do have an eye patch,” Dimitri replies gently.

“I – we – beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” the father stutters, but Dimitri shakes his head.

“It is quite all right,” he says. He is – he is _amused_. Actually amused. He had almost forgotten what it felt like.

“Are you a pirate?” the little boy continues, utterly guileless, and Dimitri finds himself huffing a laugh.

The boy’s parents are watching on, silent and mortified. Common folk, though most likely well-off, and utterly blind-sided to find their family outing adjacent to the king. There is no need for Dimitri to engage with the boy – let the parents tend their child, and Dimitri enjoy his evening as much as he can manage.

But… Dimitri _likes_ children. Would not like the boy to leave thinking he had done something wrong by asking a question.

“Not a pirate,” Dimitri says, sitting down so that the boy may see his face better. “How old are you, little one?”

The boy frowns in concentration as he raises a hand. Holds up, with great care, four fingers. “This many.”

“Four? My goodness. You are so grown up, I thought you were at least five.”

The boy _beams_. Puffing his tiny chest out proudly, and Dimitri’s lip quirks again.

“Into your chair, lad,” his father says. Calmer, now. A smile on his own face, though he averts his gaze respectfully from Dimitri’s. “Your - Your Majesty.”

“Good evening to you,” Dimitri returns. Settles back into his seat, turning to look at Felix.

He does not recognise the look on Felix’s face. His sharp, striking features are somehow … soft.

That cannot be right. Felix is not soft. Not in general, and certainly not on him. Still, Dimitri feels himself flushing. Looks down at his hands. The joy and amusement from the little boy’s curiosity dries up as quickly as it came, but… the weight on his chest is not as heavy as it was before. Despite everything, despite all that he has done, all that he is, Dimitri does not frighten that little boy.

Dimitri himself is still afraid. Of his own mind, and the things that he may do. But that child does not fear him, and the knowledge burrows deep inside him in a way he cannot explain.

Felix is still looking at him. Looking and looking, and Dimitri does not know what he wants.

The doors to the hall close. The conductor comes out to great applause, and the music starts. Loud, dramatic, all-consuming. Felix stops staring. Leans forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the curtain. Excited.

He is so close. So close Dimitri can feel his warmth where their arms are almost touching. So close Dimitri can see the light from the orchestra pit reflecting in Felix’s eyes. So close that Dimitri can pretend, if only for a moment.

The curtain rises, and the opera begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedue out here looking out for his goth bro like the legend he is


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG SHOUT OUT to @ingrimasname for very kindly looking over a scene for me when I was in a tizz about it and providing some great suggestions. What a legend.

Felix shepherds Dimitri out of his seat the moment the curtain draws on the final act. People are watching them. Watching, whispering, pointing. Leaping to their feet to get a look at Dimitri, and in retrospect taking a box would have been the wiser choice. Away from the eyes of the crowd. The whispers ring out again, louder and louder, _the king, the king, the king_.

But nobody approaches. Nobody tries to intercept Dimitri as he walks by. Because Felix strides at his side with such purpose, a fierce scowl fixed on his handsome face, and nobody dares. Somehow, he is so imposing he accomplishes what even Dedue cannot.

They are into the foyer in a flash, rapidly approaching the front doors. The house manager hurries out from her office, hair askew, and she has to run to catch them. She rushes to open the door for them, mouth opening to speak.

On instinct, out of pure politeness, Dimitri pauses. Felix does not. Barely breaking stride, he takes Dimitri by the arm, his gloved hand gripping Dimitri’s elbow and guiding him back into motion.

“Good evening,” Felix says to the manager, brisk and to the point.

Then they are out the doors. Down the stairs, and Felix’s hand is still on Dimitri’s arm. Still holding onto him, his grip firm and sure. And Dimitri…

He is silent. Utterly silent. He knows his duty well, knows he should allow the manager her speech, and go and congratulate the performers, and be _seen_ in the foyer, shaking hands and smiling and nodding even though that is the last thing he feels like doing.

But his heart is pounding. Felix is still holding onto him, his grip strong and decisive, and Dimitri cannot think of anything else. Lets himself be led, because Felix is – he is _touching_ him.

Felix ushers Dimitri into the waiting carriage and climbs in after him, shutting the door with a _slam_. The carriage jerks into motion at once, and it has all happened so quickly that Dimitri is reeling, off-kilter. Disoriented from their sudden flight to the carriage after hours sitting in the dark. His heart rabbit-fast with the memory of Felix’s touch.

A hand on his elbow. Guiding him. Keeping him close.

Felix is glaring out the window now, at the people thronging the stairs and gawking after them. A large crowd – the speed of their flight makes sense, now. Dimitri is barely able to focus on simple things at the moment, things right in front of him, let alone pay attention to his surroundings at the same time.

Dangerous. An infinitely dangerous thing in a king, yet another sign of his madness. But… Felix is here. And Felix knew what to do. Has not scolded Dimitri yet for his lack of attention, not yet.

“Ugh, crowds,” Felix mutters. Still does not scold. Settles back in his seat and looks, if anything, self-satisfied. Proud as ever, a man of action, decisive where Dimitri is not.

Dimitri forces himself to look away. Shuts his eye, just for a moment, trying to steady the beating of his heart. Felix is here, so close, close enough Dimitri could touch. Guiding him with a steady hand on Dimitri’s arm, and it is almost as if…

No. Felix’s hand on his arm meant nothing. He knows it meant nothing. It was pragmatic, a necessity, Felix tugging Dimitri along and, knowing him, annoyed at having to do it.

Dimitri’s mind still conjures up an image. Him and Felix, arm in arm, as if they were…

He is so stupid, sometimes.

“What did you think of the show?” Felix asks.

Dimitri snaps his wandering mind back to the carriage. Darts a look at Felix, who is still looking out the window. His leg, though, is tapping almost impatiently, and Dimitri composes himself as best as he is able.

“It was wonderful.”

Even in profile, Dimitri can see the way Felix’s features warm. His restless leg stills.

“That soprano’s coloratura was immaculate,” he says. Knowledgeable, far more so than Dimitri. “I’ve never heard that aria sung so well. It’s infamously difficult.”

“They were all very good.” Dimitri may not know any singing terminology, but he knows that. “I have never seen an opera like it.”

“Whoever picked the performances to come to the palace when we were children had appalling taste,” Felix says. “Terrible stuff.”

Dimitri remembers. He remembers sitting ramrod straight beside his father, trying desperately not to fall asleep or, even worse, start playing with Felix, who was kicking the chair in front of him.

Felix rarely brings up their childhood together these days. Their history is too scarred, too stained. But this is… this is surprisingly neutral.

“Your taste is much better.”

“I should hope so,” Felix snorts. “Anyway. Good music, and the story’s not the worst I’ve seen.”

“I liked it,” Dimitri says. “It seemed a shame, though, that the lord had to die. He was not all bad. Then again, he would not repent even when the chance was offered to him, even when the lady all but begged him to…”

Dimitri looks out the window. Brittle. Memories dancing around the edges of his mind, the type he never wants to revisit. The type that haunts his nightmares all the same. Memories of his own sins, his own madness. Of the war and all its brutality. Of holding out his hand, of pulling a knife from his shoulder.

She does not haunt him often. But sometimes…

He forces his thoughts back to the present. To the rocking of the carriage. To Felix, so strikingly handsome, so close at hand. To what is real, and here, and now, in as much as his fractured mind can let him. Too volatile, too unstable. Not something he wants Felix to know.

The opera was just a story, he reminds himself. Just a story, and a fanciful one at that. The villainous lord met his end at the hands of the ghost of a man he killed, singing loudly about it all the while, and Dimitri even saw the moment when the lord’s performer did not quite get off-stage in time after his ‘death’. Just a story.

“I suppose the lord was irredeemable,” Dimitri finishes.

“No one is irredeemable.”

Felix’s sudden proclamation jerks Dimitri out of his latest spiral into melancholy. He looks over – regrets it almost immediately when the mere sight of Felix’s face makes something clench almost painfully inside him. Felix’s eyes are blazing, his expression breathlessly intense. Firm, even defiant, which is not what Dimitri was expecting.

Felix is ever a pragmatist, ever a realist. Not unjust, but not a forgiving man either, as Dimitri knows all too well.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not naïve,” Felix says. “Some people don’t want to be redeemed, and won’t change even if it means they have to die. The lord deserved his punishment. But people aren’t… people aren’t simple. They can be a lot of things.” Felix’s cheeks flush, his eyes skittering away. “You’re the one who taught me that.”

Silence.

For a moment, Dimitri forgets he needs to breathe. Stunned, unable to understand, because they have never – they have never talked about this, not since that first time. _Which are you, a beast or a man?_

At the beginning, after Dimitri’s coronation, things were still so tense between them. Hostile, cold. It did not matter what Dimitri said, did not matter what he tried, Felix could not stomach him. As king and duke, they could speak, but man to man they had nothing to say to each other that was not couched in a strange tension.

Then Dimitri got sick. And Felix got distant. But now. Now… _People aren’t simple. You’re the one who taught me that_.

Felix floors him. Sends him reeling, every time, in every way.

Felix is shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. Coughs into his own hand, his flush spreading.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m just saying,” he mutters. Folding his arms. Withdrawing into himself again, but…

“You surprise me,” Dimitri says, quiet, choked. Too low, too _much_ , for the feeling in his chest is overflowing and there is nothing he can do to prevent it.

A flash of Felix’s amber eyes. The tilt of his head, just slightly towards Dimitri, and the moon shines through the window behind him, casting his face into shadow. Mysterious, unknowable. As strange and forceful as ever, and Dimitri will never _understand_ him. Fiery but cold, harsh but just, distant but _right there_.

Dimitri’s heart is pounding. He is not thinking clearly. The whole carriage smells of Felix’s cologne, spicy and masculine, and Dimitri is positively dizzy. Sways closer, entirely unbidden, his gaze flicking towards Felix’s lips. He wants… he _wants_ …

Felix’s eyes are on him. Dark, now, pupils blown wide. Closer and closer, so close Dimitri can see the rare flecks of green ringing the amber of his eyes.

Too close.

Dimitri comes back to himself like a man surfacing water, cold reality slapping him in the face. He jerks backwards, as far away as he can manage. Stares out his window, as though that was his intent all along, his heart hammering and that sick feeling back in his stomach.

He… what is he doing? What was he thinking? He does not know. Does not know what he wants. Or, he does but – he does not, it is not – he is not _supposed_ to, and he does not know what he is doing, and -

He is spiralling again. Losing control of his thoughts, unfocused, incoherent. He shuts his eye tight. Feels another spasm pass over his face, mercifully concealed by the fall of his hair.

Felix would hate him. He is the handsomest man Dimitri has ever known, the bravest, the best. And Dimitri is… this.

Felix would hate him.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Dimitri says, barely understanding the words coming out of his own mouth. Politeness – the only cover left. “It was an enjoyable evening.”

Felix is silent a long moment. Dimitri hears him shift in his seat. “You don’t have to be so formal.”

It is not the first time Felix has said it. But Dimitri has nothing left, and when the silence stretches too long Felix speaks again.

“I… thank you. For coming.” Every bit as formal as Dimitri. Stiff, polite. Wrong on him, so wrong. Dimitri’s work, as always.

Silence. Awkward, unbearable silence.

When they get back to the palace, Felix breaks it with a sudden declaration that he will walk Dimitri back to his chambers. Insists upon it, even, citing Dimitri’s recent bout of illness with a familiar stubborn look on his face, so Dimitri does not argue.

He does not want Felix to see his weakness. Does not want him to see how broken he is, how scattered, how unwell. He must not be doing as well at hiding it as he hoped if Felix does not trust him to return to his own rooms safely.

Felix strides beside him. Tense, quiet again. The air between them is heavy, strangely charged.

Dimitri does not know how to fix it. Has nothing to say, now, nothing charming, or clever, or impressive. His judgment is shot, his tiredness hitting him with full force as they climb the stairs to his chambers.

Still, he tries. Inadvisable as it may be, he tries. “Thank you again, Felix. I… I enjoyed the show. And your company.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. They are awkward, even wobbly, and too vulnerable by far. Felix will not look at him. Comes to a halt in front of his door with his arms folded decidedly across his chest.

_And your company_. Goddess. Is he _trying_ to drive Felix away?

Felix just grunts in acknowledgment. His only response. Dimitri fumbles for the doorknob, wishing fervently he could _control his tongue_. He should not have said it. Should not have pushed, but Dimitri is so -

“Uh,” Felix suddenly bursts out. Too loud in the quiet corridor, so loud Dimitri startles. Felix says, in a sudden rush, “I should take you to see the chamber orchestra next. If – only if you’re available. I know you’re busy.”

It… oh. Oh.

The tension goes out of Dimitri in a sudden rush. A warm flood of relief, and he can feel the smile playing at his lips. Another thing out of his control, but this one does not matter so much.

A second invitation. Felix does not hate his company after all. Felix invited him out a first time, now a _second_ time.

“I would like that,” Dimitri says.

“It’s settled then,” Felix says. Looking up at him, his expression strange. Close again, too close, his eyes flitting across Dimitri’s face. Leaning closer still.

Panic flares, sudden and disorienting. Another moment of emotional whiplash. Dimitri ducks his head away, hair falling in front of his face as his heart pounds and pounds.

He does not know what to do, what to say, what to think. Does not know what he, or Felix, wants.

“Good night,” he chokes out.

A pause. Felix steps backwards, and Dimitri feels cold, all of a sudden.

He looks up again, because he cannot help it. Meets Felix’s eyes. Felix, whose face is flushed, his brow furrowed his mouth turned into an unhappy line.

Felix’s eyes skitter away immediately. Flush deepening.

“Night,” Felix grunts out. Rough, even aggressive, though he gives Dimitri no time to dwell on it. The word barely out of Felix’s mouth before he whirls away and strides off down the corridor at high speed. As though he is in a hurry to escape.

Dimitri stares after him. Tired, sick to the stomach. Too many feelings coursing through him for him to make sense of them.

In his head, there is only one mantra. _Felix, Felix, Felix_.

\- - -

Dedue asks about Dimitri’s evening the next day. Engaged, curious, though never invasively so. They are sitting in Dimitri’s armchairs near the fire, and Dedue is darning his socks while Dimitri fidgets with a loose string on his sleeve. No paperwork, no summit, no grand social event to attend. Just the two of them, for the whole day. Dedue is asking questions, quiet but interested, and Dimitri is… well, easy.

It is hard to explain. He is not entirely coherent this morning, his thoughts scattered, his stories meandering. But with Dedue, it does not matter. He does not have to try so hard. Does not have to worry about boring him, or keeping his mask fixed so tightly in place.

“How is Annette?” Dedue asks.

“Not well. She did not come,” Dimitri says. His eye twitches – _just him and Felix, alone_ – but the involuntary motion is not as humiliating as it was yesterday. A small tic, rather than a dramatic spasm. “I am sorry not to have seen her, but it ended up a fortunate turn of events. Felix only had two tickets, and all the other seats were sold out.”

Dedue’s eyebrows rise. For a moment he pauses in his work, thoughtful. Then, unexpectedly, his lip curls up. “Hm.”

Dimitri’s consistent tugging on his loose string is slowly building traction - it is beginning to unravel the rest of the stitching. It does not matter. Though Dimitri is fully covered, ‘dressed for the day’ would be an exaggeration. He is wearing an oversized black shirt that billows around his frame, and a pair of warm winter trousers that have seen better days. Unfit for anyone to go out in, let alone a king.

Dimitri is comfortable. And Dedue does not mind. He just seemed pleased that Dimitri took the trouble to get dressed at all, rather than staying in his nightclothes.

“Well,” Dedue says at length. Thoughts still elsewhere, Dimitri thinks, though why he cannot say. “You are the king. Surely a box could have been procured for you.”

“The house manager offered, but I…” _I do not like that_ , is what he is about to say. Petulant, like a child, but he does not mean to be ungrateful. It is just…

Dedue nods. “You are not inclined to displace other patrons. I understand. Did you enjoy the performance?”

Dimitri nods. Launches into a rambling, circuitous retelling of the plot. Not ordered in any logical way, even to his own mind, but Dedue seems to follow well enough. Dimitri tells him of the songs, of the costumes, of the dances. Tells him of the staged sword fight with its drawn-out conclusion – the dying man needed plenty of time to sing his woe, and for his masked assailant to oh-so-slowly reveal his face. He tells him of the drama, the romance, the heightened tension of it all. So obviously fake, but in such a way that it could simply be enjoyed rather than bring back unpleasant memories.

Dedue is smiling at him when he finishes. A subtle upturn of his lips, as much as Dedue ever smiles. But Dimitri knows him well enough to see the thoughts lurking behind his eyes. The lingering sadness, and tension, and relief.

Dimitri is not as bad as he was yesterday. The guilt is not quite as choking, despite the familiar thoughts swirling through his head. That he is holding Dedue back, that he takes too much, that he is the worst kind of burden. It comes hand in hand with another piece of information too – that Dedue cares for him. _Loves_ him, even, though Dimitri’s mind rebels at even the idea of the word.

Dedue wants Dimitri to be happy and well, not because of his vassalage or indebtedness or any of those other things, but because he…

Cares for him. Dimitri can accept it being put it that way. _Dedue_ put it that way - yesterday, and when Dimitri got sick, and many times before - though for some reason it is only now that the words seem to have percolated the fog in Dimitri’s mind. Dimitri can cope with Dedue _caring_ for him, though it introduces a new kind of guilt, because Dimitri is unworthy of his affection and –

“Dimitri?”

A jolt back to the present. Dimitri is spiralling again. Dedue’s lips have tightened into a firm line, and he is watching him closely.

Dimitri could hurt him one day. In a moment of madness, in a fit of paranoid delusion. Dimitri could hurt him.

He takes a breath. Does not try and force the thought away, because he knows what he is capable of. He knows.

“A little boy asked me if I was a pirate, yesterday.” Dimitri is not sure why he says it. Why they, out of all the possibilities in the world, are the words that leave his mouth. “He was very sweet.”

Dedue huffs a laugh. “Children are always drawn to you. They sense your kindness.”

Dimitri hunches in on himself. “I am not-”

“Dimitri,” Dedue interrupts. Calm but firm, and Dimitri knows him well enough to hear the warning.

They talked about this. Dedue does not like it when he speaks unkindly of himself. Does not like it, either, when he dismisses compliments out-of-hand.

Dimitri wrestles with himself. Redirects, even though it is difficult, because Dedue has had enough worry this morning. Dedue is calm now, to be sure, but he was not so when he came in this morning and discovered what Dimitri had done to the balcony doors.

It is not… not what Dedue thought. Dimitri had a nightmare last night, that is all. Broke open his balcony doors with sheer brute strength in his desperation for fresh air. Did not think, not until Dedue’s face drained entirely of blood when he walked in this morning.

Another pang of guilt. Dimitri owes Dedue better than this.

“It was a good evening,” he says at last. Then, immediately losing the thread of his sentence, he comes out with, “Although…”

“Yes?” Dedue prompts.

Now Dimitri has spoken, there is no taking it back. He grimaces. Tugs at the loose thread again. “I do not know what to make of Felix. He… he invited me to see a chamber orchestra next. But he is… he seems so…”

Dimitri’s articulation is quickly unravelling. But Dedue knows him well.

“Felix’s manner is often curt, no matter his intention. If he has invited you to another concert, it is because he wishes for your company.”

Warmth blossoms in Dimitri’s chest. But he does not quite trust it, not yet. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

Dimitri swallows. A weight easing from his chest. Because he is mad, and his judgment is impaired, but Dedue would never deceive him. He would not say so if he did not think so, and Dedue has never led Dimitri astray before.

“I am glad to see you smile,” Dedue says. It makes Dimitri flush, but he does not try to hide it.

Dedue tells Dimitri of his trip to Duscur next – not of his work, not of politics or policy or logistics, no matter how Dimitri pries and cajoles. “Another day,” Dedue repeats, and wearing down his patience is like having a staring contest with a mountain, some days.

But he tells Dimitri other things. Of walking through fields of flowers of the kind he never thought he would see again. Of tasting Duscur-style food – _real_ Duscur food, with all the right herbs and spices, rather than whatever substitutes he can find. He speaks of singing the songs of his childhood, sharing folk stories, sharing memories. Grieving together, but looking forward to the future.

Dimitri pulled him back here. Away from his people, his future, his life. For what? To hang about Dimitri chambers? Tidy his wardrobe? Watch him sob into his pillowcase?

“I am glad to be home. I missed you,” Dedue says. As if reading his thoughts.

Dimitri’s mouth twists. He knows Dedue does not want to hear it, but - “I am sorry you come home to find me… as I am.”

“There is no need for apologies, as I have already told you. I only wish you had written to me yourself when you became unwell.”

“It is not worth your -”

“Dimitri,” Dedue reminds him, and that is that.

The day takes on a slow, quiet rhythm, and Dimitri cannot remember another like it. They talk. They read. Dimitri finds it hard to concentrate on the complicated historical text he chooses, but when Dedue gets up to make them both tea, he sets a light novel down on Dimitri’s coffee table without a word. Fanciful, the kind of adventure and romantic tale Dimitri rarely so much as looks at, but which proves easier to focus on.

It prompts other thoughts, though, because Dimitri’s cruel mind latches onto anything it can twist around at present. The couple in the novel fall slowly in love, start talking of marriage, and Dimitri has never… Dimitri is what he is. He has only his rank to recommend him as a romantic partner, and even that comes with downsides, for Dimitri is too busy to make a good husband. He cannot imagine the kind of person who would take him. Who would want him, _love_ him, even.

He does not realise he is staring vacantly at the rug until Dedue suggests they go for a walk.

It is not an easy day for Dedue. It cannot be. Managing the twists and turns of Dimitri’s moods. Up and down, calm then miserable, chattering anxiously one moment then surly and silent the next. Difficult. So difficult, and as soon as one thing calms Dimitri down the next surge of emotion is just around the corner.

Dedue makes him have a nap in the afternoon. Makes him have a long, perfumed bath in the evening, too. Makes him eat and drink throughout the day, even when Dimitri does not want to. But he does, because he sees the looks Dedue casts towards the ruined balcony doors and the sheer drop not far beyond. Sees Dedue searching the room again when he thinks Dimitri is sleeping, something uncharacteristically anxious about the sharp motions of his fingers.

Dimitri does everything he asks without a word of complaint, if only to ease the look lingering in Dedue’s eyes.

\- - -

The next day, Dimitri is back at work.

Not properly, not in any way that counts. Working half-days, and he remains under Dedue’s careful supervision. Dedue reminds him to eat, to drink, to take breaks. Constant, even overbearing, but Dimitri can hardly complain.

He does not want to be doing things this way. He wants to go back to normal, because he is _missing_ things. There is a whole summit going on, and _Dimitri is not there_. He is the king – it is unthinkable, unforgivable.

Dedue insists. Refuses to hear a word of Dimitri’s arguments.

“You have every right to reallocate your duties. No one will question it,” Dedue says. “You are unwell. Stay in your office for now.”

Dimitri would argue, if he thought it would do any good. He is – well, not exactly better. But he _is_ better rested, and that has to count for something.

He spends his morning slogging through some of his more difficult paperwork. Advises his aides that he is taking meetings again, and the head chef is first in the door. Ranting about his complicated menu for the ball and the gross injustice of the head servant having sent her staff back to their normal duties. Dimitri nods along, commiserates, changes nothing. He reads more reports, signs documents, and tries to get on top of his mail pile. There is no shortage of work to do, even while shirking other responsibilities.

He does not intend to talk to Sylvain. Not yet. Not today, not while he is still so fragile. But sometimes the hand of fate intervenes.

It is early in the afternoon, just after taking lunch with Dedue, that there is another knock on Dimitri’s door.

“Enter,” he calls. Absent-minded, focused on his task. He almost snaps his quill when Sylvain steps into the room.

“Your Majesty,” Sylvain greets. Bowing, _bowing_ , at his door. “My apologies for disturbing you. I come bearing news.”

Dimitri gestures him into a seat. Tries to settle the leaden feeling in his chest, the little twitches of his fingers, the fresh flush of anxiety. Sylvain could not be clearer in his address – he is here because he has to be. Distant. Professional. Far more formal with Dimitri than he has ever been.

Not here as Sylvain, but as… as Margrave Gautier.

Dimitri shoves the memory of their last conversation to the side. He does not have to say anything – Sylvain begins his report the moment he sits down.

“I’ve just received a message from a scout along the Sreng border. She writes that several clans have appeared to band together and are approaching the mountains at high speed. I have no information on why they might be working together, but they’re approaching Gautier territory at a rapid pace, and in large numbers.”

“What do you need?”

“Manpower. I’ve already put the order out for all soldiers to ready for an incursion, but there’s no telling which direction they’ll come from yet. The mountains are treacherous to navigate, and we don’t have eyes across the whole range. Too dangerous to send many cavalry.”

“Pegasus knights, then?” Dimitri asks. Sylvain’s nods, and Dimitri pulls a piece of parchment towards him. He needs no time to consider – he writes out his order, quick and sure. “I’m diverting Ingrid and her knights at once. They’re close – they should make it in time. How are your supplies?”

“Good, but we might need additional medical support if things get nasty.”

Dimitri nods. Pulls another piece of parchment towards him and writes a separate order. “The healers will be slower to mobilise, but I’m ordering a group of them up to you from the city and placing those in neighbouring territories on standby.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else you require immediately?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri signs and seals his orders with swift familiarity. “Guard!” The door opens at once. “Deliver these at once.”

A bow, then the guard takes the offered papers and strides purposefully from the room. He is good at his job, that one – he understands urgency when he sees it.

“Thank you,” Sylvain says again.

“Of course.”

Then… silence.

Dimitri and Sylvain look at each other. And suddenly, with their urgent matter of business resolved, with no further action required on their part, without their respective duties at play - it is awkward.

Dimitri cannot stand to meet his eyes. Panic claws at his throat, as familiar as it is unwelcome. Even _looking_ at Sylvain makes him feel physically ill. How can he ever atone for the things he said? He is not – he is not ready. He has not prepared anything to say, has not practiced his mode of apology.

_Snake, good-for-nothing, traitor._

There is nothing in the world that could ever make up for that.

Sylvain stands. Bows again, stiff. “Apologies again for intruding, sire.”

“I – of course. Not at all.”

They look at each other again. Both look away simultaneously.

Sylvain clears his throat. Bows again and moves for the door. And Dimitri has dreaded this moment, and yet -

“Sylvain, wait.”

Sylvain pauses. Hand on the door handle. Back to Dimitri. “Not Margrave Gautier today, huh?”

Sylvain speaks in an easy drawl, in an appearance of good humour, but Dimitri knows better. He shuts his eye. Takes a breath. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. At least, not for the reasons you think.”

“Will you sit with me?” Dimitri asks. “We should… we should talk.”

Sylvain inclines his head. Comes back, his expression blank, and sits down on the other side of Dimitri’s desk, and – no. No, that will not do. Not today, not for this conversation.

Dimitri stands. Pulls his chair around the desk so there is no barrier between them. Nothing for him to hide behind, no rank or social etiquette to conceal him. He is shaking, he realises. Shaking. But he has to do this.

_Tell me why I should not take that treacherous head from your shoulders_.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says. “I am - I am so sorry. I-”

Sylvain interrupts almost immediately. “Yeah, I know you are. I knew you’d be sorry.”

Sylvain’s arms are folded. He is not disbelieving, not scoffing at Dimitri’s apology, which makes his severity even stranger. Dimitri is so used to his twinkling humour and charm, that without it… he never noticed before how much older Sylvain looks. Older than Dimitri remembers him.

“I…” Dimitri’s shoulders hunch in. “What I said to you it… it is inexcusable.”

“Before you tie yourself up in knots trying to apologise, let me ask you something,” Sylvain says. Dimitri shuts his mouth. Nods, miserable. “What’s going on with you?”

Dimitri blinks. It is such an – an offhand question. Not what he was expecting.

“What do you mean?” At Sylvain’s quirked brow, Dimitri hurries on. “I will answer, of course I will. But I…”

“You know the answer,” Sylvain says. “And so do I, when it comes down to it. But I’m still asking.”

Dimitri looks down at his hands. Fiddles with his gloves. “I am… not myself.”

“Go on.”

It is shameful. The worst kind of shame. Yet Dimitri stills his trembling hands in his lap and forces his frozen lips to move anyway. “I am mad, Sylvain.”

Sylvain is silent. When Dimitri dares a look at him, he sees surprise written across Sylvain’s face. Dimitri is too far gone to interpret that, to even begin to understand it, but then Sylvain exhales.

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to come out and say it.” Sylvain scrubs a hand through his hair. Leans back in his chair – relaxing. More comfortable. More himself. “You’ve done a good job avoiding it thus far.”

Dimitri nods. Head bowing again. He feels, mortifyingly, his throat beginning to tighten. Dare not speak, for fear of what else might come out.

“It… look,” Sylvain says. “Have you spoken to Mercedes lately?”

A non-sequitur. Dimitri does not know what Sylvain is angling at, but he shakes his head.

“All right.” Sylvain is quiet a moment. Composing himself, Dimitri realises. Composing his thoughts.

Sylvain. Infamously unreliable, easy-going, rakish Sylvain. Treading so very _carefully_.

“You haven’t been replying to her letters. She keeps writing to me instead, Goddess only knows why. But… Dimitri.” There it is. Anger - a subtle thing on Sylvain, but there nonetheless, a distinctive tightness to his voice and furrow of his brow. “You lock everybody out. You’re – damn it, Dimitri, you’re always so far _away_. First it was revenge, now it’s duty. You don’t let anybody near you, and then things like this happen and nobody knows what to do.”

Whatever Dimitri was expecting, it is not this. He thought it would be – disgust, hurt, _fear_ , even. Not… not this. He is still trembling, almost dizzy. But Sylvain is not finished.

“When you got that fever last year, nobody even knew you were unwell until you _collapsed_ , Dimitri. Do you have any idea what that was like? We all thought you were going to die.” Sylvain’s voice is – it is _choked_. “And – Goddess, I knew I should have planned this out. I’m not making much sense.”

Sylvain pauses. Scrubbing his hand through his hair again, messing it up. Dimitri is frozen. Silent.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Sylvain’s voice is rough. “I know you’re - sick. I get that. And I’m probably the worst person to be having this conversation with you but… for Goddess’ _sake_ , Dimitri. Dedue’s terrified, and I don’t blame him. He thinks you’re going to hurt yourself. More than you have already, I mean. You can’t shut us all out forever. You just… you can’t keep doing this.”

Sylvain’s voice peters out. Words, apparently, exhausted.

This is not what Dimitri expected. Not by any measure.

“You should hate me." Dimitri does not mean to say it. Not in response to... all of that. So much, too much for him to contemplate, and his brain shies away even from trying. “You – this is not the conversation I thought we would have. You should hate me.”

Sylvain taps his leg against the floor. Looking down, now, away from Dimitri. Awkward again. “Yeah. Well.”

There is so much to take in. Dimitri’s mind is reeling. Already beginning to play Sylvain's speech back, repeating over and over until it hurts him. _You can’t shut us all out forever._ Is that what - is that what Dimitri has been doing? No, no, it is not like that, he is sure of it. But. _But_.

Dimitri's whole body is shaking. He has to say _something_ , but he cannot speak. Tries to, but cannot. Too fractured, struck in places he did not realise he was vulnerable. _You’re always so far away._

Dimitri has lived many awful moments. Lived through epiphanies far weightier than this one. Somehow, it still feels like the worst.

“I am sorry,” Dimitri says when he is able to choke the words out. “I know you do not want to hear it, but I…” He swallows. “I just… I am lost, Sylvain. It is no excuse. I want to get better, at – at all of it. But I do not know what to do. I am always so busy but-”

Excuse. That is an excuse, and Sylvain deserves better.

“I am… I find things… hard.”

It is not a great finish. Not a speech, not like Sylvain’s. Barely coherent, because Dimitri is still scrambled, and even the slightest challenge to what he knows of himself is too much.

Sylvain just nods. Not quite looking at Dimitri. “All right.”

“I…” Dimitri has nothing left. Mimics, “All right.”

Another silence. But not quite as heavy as the last.

Unexpectedly, Sylvain huffs a laugh. “I really should have left this to someone else. I’m not good at this.”

This part, at least, is easy. “No, I – thank you, Sylvain. For being willing to speak with me. You are a better friend than I deserve. You… you have left me much to think about.”

An understatement to the extreme. Dimitri feels like his brain might cease functioning all together with the amount of thoughts whirling around.

“And you will think about it? What I said?”

Dimitri nods.

“Good.” Sylvain shifts in his seat. Offers Dimitri a smile. A small one, but it reaches his eyes. “Let’s never talk about our feelings again.”

It is Dimitri’s turn to laugh now. A surprised, rough noise that forces its was out of his throat. He still feels alarmingly like he might cry, but…

Sylvain has forgiven him. Just like that. He has forgiven him.

"All right," Dimitri says.

Sylvain stands. Shaking himself off, as though physically ridding himself of the conversation. “I need a drink. Wanna come?”

It is early afternoon. Far too early to drink on any day, let alone on a day Dimitri is shirking his duties. But Sylvain is inviting him. After all is said and done, Sylvain is still extending his hand.

Dimitri is so raw, so brittle. Poor company, as always. Mind already trying to dissect what Sylvain said, but too troubled and incoherent for it to do much good.

Later. He will do all his thinking later, when it is not so hard. Sylvain has forgiven him - impossibly, generously forgiven him - and he would be a fool not to take the hand offered him.

“Lead the way," Dimitri says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50 points to anyone who can guess what opera Felix and Dimitri saw


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Still decidedly in place. Proceed with care. One mental health trigger specifically emphasised in this chapter - please see end notes.**

On Dimitri’s first day back at summit meetings, he walks in on a raging argument.

It is so loud he hears it coming from down the hallway. He pauses outside the meeting room, hand on the door handle. Takes in a long breath - brittle, still brittle, but not as bad as he was before. He centres himself, pulling on his mask - he is the king. Steady, wise, untouchable.

He can do this. He has done it before. Dimitri touches a hand to his forehead, where his crown would rest if he ever wore one. Then he opens the door and steps inside.

It is chaos. Half the room is on its feet, people all shouting over the top of each other. Felix stands too, leaning heavily on the table, his teeth bared in a snarl and his face a mask of frustration. Even he, it seems, is unable to hold them all back.

With all the shouting, nobody notices Dimitri in the doorway.

It is a blessing. A moment to assess the battlefield before he wades in. Taking in the chaos piece by piece.

“How _dare_ you speak to me like -”

“This is an _outrage_ _-_ ”

“Father, please calm-”

“I’m _warning_ you, Bertie!”

Voice after voice, all talking over the top of each other. For a moment, the pressure gets to Dimitri too. Fear, anxiety, hostility all welling up in his gut.

They pass him by. Whatever their fight, it is a petty one. They are hissing and spitting at each other, a grotesque caricature of the supposed aristocracy, but he need not let their impotent fury reach him.

Dimitri _can_ do this.

He takes another step into the room. Fixes his gaze on the people closest to him, trusting the weight of it will alert them to his presence.

One by one, person by person, they notice.

It spreads in a ripple. One lady notices him and abruptly cuts off mid-tirade, her face flushing. A man nearby seizes the opportunity of her silence to become louder, only for his companion to yank him by the arm – offending him until he too notices just who his companion is staring at. Another lord urgently shushes his companions, swatting at their arms until they take heed of him.

Quiet comes in pockets, in sudden, urgent hushing noises. People startling at the sound of their own voices – loud, now, without room-wide clamour - looking around and abruptly cutting themselves off.

Not quite everyone. Not the most obstinate.

“I swear to the Goddess, Bertie, I’ll have you right by the-”

An urgent hiss of, “ _Father_. The king.”

Silence. At last, there is silence.

“My lords and ladies,” Dimitri greets. Soft though he speaks, he sees more than one person flinch.

Felix’s head whips around. Sharp features flushed, his hair falling out of its ponytail. His eyes flash when he sees Dimitri. “All rise for His Majesty the King!”

A scramble to obey. Those seated rise, those already standing turn to face him, and they all bow. Low, lingering. No one dares look him in the eye, even as they straighten up. Dimitri scans the room in no particular hurry. Watches as heads duck and eyes dart away from him. Someone coughs, the noise sudden and loud.

His footsteps echo as he crosses the room, his black cloak swishing behind him. Sylvain rises from his bow to pull Dimitri’s heavy seat out for him. He, at least, is not chastened – he casts Dimitri a wink.

Dimitri lowers himself into his chair. Silently, he raises a hand and gestures the audience to be seated.

The tension is almost unbearable. Building and building the longer he waits, but this is the kind of tension under Dimitri’s control.

“My good people,” he says at last. “I am quite taken aback.”

As reprimands go, it is mild indeed. But he sees more than one person staring anywhere but him, lowering their heads to be free of his roaming gaze.

It is a surprise to find the assembly in such a state - not because such incidents do not happen (in fact, Dimitri expects at least three shouting matches and one physical injury every time the nobility meet), but because Felix is normally so swift in quelling open signs of hostility.

He looks to Felix. Says, quietly, “Duke Fraldarius?”

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” Felix is stiff but constrained. “There has been much contention over the subject of trading perishable goods.”

Dimitri quirks a brow, and Felix quirks one back. A subtle communication, telling Dimitri exactly how exhausted Felix is with all this, and how stupid and inane the arguments have become. _Perishable goods_ , indeed – Dimitri has no doubt he will hear the truth of the hostility later, when he and Felix have a moment alone.

“Well,” Dimitri says to the room. “It is fortunate, then, that I was able to remove myself from critical matters of governance this morning in order to attend.”

Dimitri is not usually one for sarcasm - or humour of any sort, really - but used sparingly sarcasm is a tool like any other. Not one he reaches for naturally, though, and it takes him a moment to remember that Felix has said something similar before. That Dimitri must have learned the line from him.

He does not flush, but with the weight of Felix’s eyes on him, it is a near thing.

“You will forgive me for setting the itinerary out of order, Your Grace,” Dimitri says, and his voice is gratifyingly steady, “but I believe we will move this discussion onwards.”

“Of course, sire.”

Felix does not often call him that, nor bow his head quite so gracefully in Dimitri’s direction. His uncharacteristic deference startles Dimitri into looking at him properly – a mistake, because he immediately loses the thread of his thoughts. Felix’s whole face is darkened by a scowl, but it does not render him any less handsome. His hair is pulled high, dark strands falling loose about his face, features sharp and arresting.

Dimitri should not be so easily distracted. He is, really and truly, a poor excuse for a king.

One of the lords pipes up almost as soon as Felix finishes speaking. “But – Your Majesty, the matter is not settled-”

“Enough,” Dimitri says. Settled or not, Dimitri’s word is final. The man subsides into his chair with gratifying swiftness.

“Ah – Your Majesty.” It is Lord Denmar. Rising from his seat, that strange rictus grin spreading across his face. “May I be the first to welcome you back into our midst. I am sure I speak for all of us when I say your wisdom and judgment have indeed been sorely missed.”

Sycophantic as ever. But more than that – the words ring strange. Pointed, as Denmar’s gaze flicks towards Felix.

Dimitri feels his lips thin. He has spent a lifetime in the royal court. A lifetime as a prince, surrounded by sniping and backstabbing as lords and ladies vied for power, simpering at the king all the while.

_Your wisdom and judgment have been missed_ , Denmar said with a smug look at Felix, who has been providing them in Dimitri’s absence. Dimitri is not stupid - he knows an insult when he hears one.

Just like that, Dimitri’s temper flares. Dark and foreboding, and he slams a hand down on the table before he can stop himself. Denmar jumps, his awful grin sliding off his face. Paling as Dimitri stares him down.

He should be frightened. Daring to insult Felix in Dimitri’s presence, but -

Breathe, Dimitri reminds himself. Breathe.

“Thank you, Lord Denmar,” he says. Forces the words out one by one, slow and careful. Struggling for control.

Oh, Goddess, Dimitri should not be here today. But he can hardly leave now, not when he has just come in.

“I beg you not to misunderstand me, Your Most Excellent Majesty,” Denmar says, bowing so low he could rub his nose against the table. “I only wish to express my gratitude for your return. I fear more than one party has been positively bereft without you, sire.”

At this, there is a general chuckle from the lords in Denmar’s immediate vicinity. A joke Dimitri does not understand in the slightest. A glance to his right, though, shows Felix’s hand balling into a fist.

Dimitri has missed a lot over the past few days, it seems.

“Sit down, Denmar, and let us get to business,” Felix barks.

To Dimitri’s considerable surprise, Denmar does _not_ sit, despite the directness of the order and Felix’s position within Dimitri’s court. Instead, Denmar _smirks_. “Ah, my good duke, I understand that you are young. Social niceties mean little to you. Why, I believe I was just as brash, at your age, but I-”

Dimitri grinds his jaw. A fresh flood of anger swirling through him, spiralling out of control. Do not react, stay calm, _stay calm_. He cannot lose his temper, not now, not again -

“Social niceties are vital indeed!” pipes up an all-too-familiar voice. Sir Wesley again, sounding entirely too cheerful for the occasion. He shoves himself to his feet and tosses his cloak back over one shoulder, smiling broadly at the assembly. “If I may, my good friends, I too should like to welcome His Majesty back into our midst. We are blessed indeed that our king is such a learned and capable leader.”

Sir Wesley bows to Dimitri. Talking too fast and too loud for Denmar to stutter out any more than a few syllables before, looking like he has swallowed a lemon, he reluctantly sits back down.

Dimitri is breathing too quickly. He sets his hands in his lap, hiding then beneath the table. Sir Wesley is an excellent distraction – one would have to be fast indeed to successfully interrupt him.

“I am but a knight of the Church of Seiros rather than one of her most holy and chosen ordained,” Sir Wesley is saying, “but there can be no doubt that the Goddess herself has blessed His Majesty’s rule. Indeed, I am humbled merely to stand in this room and receive His Majesty’s guidance. But I must thank, most gratefully, His Grace the Duke Fraldarius, for shepherding us while His Majesty tended other matters.”

Beside Dimitri, Felix is still as a statue. His scowl morphing into something colder and more distant the longer Sir Wesley speaks, even as Sir Wesley praises him.

Dimitri does not know what to think. Watches Felix out of the corner of his eye, even as the rest of the room is hypnotised by Sir Wesley.

When Sir Wesley finally sits down, he does so with a characteristic flourish and a gleaming smile to the room at large. He is clever. Cleverer than he looks. Sir Wesley’s charm is a calculated thing, for all that it is boisterous. The tension has dissipated, the entire room disarmed by Sir Wesley’s long and enthusiastic speech. It could easily be mistaken for cheerful stupidity if not for the shrewd look he flicks Felix as he subsides into his seat.

“Thank you, Sir Wesley,” Dimitri manages. _Not his business_ , he reminds himself, and he forces himself to look away from Felix.

Dimitri has no business looking to begin with.

“Back to the matter at hand, then,” Felix says, as abrupt as ever. “Lady Abendroth, you’re next.”

The lady startles. Stands up, practically cringing as all eyes turn to her, before she manages to pull herself together. With her notes held tightly in front of her, she begins a shaky account of goods storage and warehousing that her family is expert in and whose services she is keen to recommend – something boring but critical to efficient trade nonetheless. An uncontentious subject, because her house is a minor one, and none of the major houses are competing for that sort of business.

Surreptitiously, Dimitri reaches out and pulls the itinerary closer. Lady Abendroth was not due to speak until the end of the day. Felix has changed the order, swift and decisive as ever. Keeping the energy in the room low after the explosion Dimitri walked in on this morning.

Building on Sir Wesley’s success. They work well together.

Dimitri swallows. He is grateful to Sir Wesley. The man defended Felix far better than Dimitri ever could, putting Denmar in his place while causing minimal offence. But Dimitri looks at him – handsome, gallant, endlessly charming – and he cannot help but hate him.

Sir Wesley wishes to become _his_ knight. A knight of the kingdom, under Dimitri’s orders and control. But right now, Dimitri _has_ no control.

He makes it through the meeting, but it is a near thing. He nods his approval when Lady Abendroth finishes her speech. Stares at whoever gets up to speak next in what he hopes is a look of rapt attention. Drums his fingers on the wood of the table and looks through his hair at people who get restless and start whispering among themselves, which quickly silences them again.

He is just a figurehead. No real use at all. Just a too-dark man sitting silently at the head of the table while Felix does all the work, Dimitri occasionally raising a hand or shaking his head. Silencing dissent with his sinister reputation, not dispelling it with clever words or charm.

Not like Sir Wesley. Eloquent, talented Sir Wesley, so disarming he can charm even the likes of Lord Denmar. Handsome, capable, a match for Felix in every respect. And Felix, in turn, is different with Sir Wesley. Not like Felix as Dimitri knows him, all fire and firm opinions. Not awkward, but perfectly composed.

Felix notices Dimitri looking at him. His shoulders tense, and he scowls, practically hunching in on himself as he looks away.

Not Dimitri’s business. None of his business, and a poor thing for a king to be thinking about in the first place.

Dimitri forces his attention back to the meeting.

\- - -

Dimitri and Felix make their way upstairs to his office once the meeting adjourns for lunch. There is a lot for Dimitri to catch up on, and Felix practically vibrates with tension the whole way.

He keeps… well, _looking_ at Dimitri. Side glances that are making Dimitri increasingly nervous, unsure how to respond.

Once they reach his office, though, Felix goes back to normal.

“That Lord Denmar is causing a lot of trouble,” he says the instant Dimitri’s office door is shut. “He’s making a grab for power, and half the assembly’s going along with him now. They’re starting to _believe_ him.”

“Believe what?” Dimitri asks as he sinks into his chair. Tired. Relieved to be out of there.

(Sad, too, but he is not thinking about that. Just another one of his twisting moods, because Dimitri has no _reason_ to be sad. No reason but Felix. Felix, in all his unattainable perfection, so entirely out of reach. Felix, and the way Sir Wesley looks at him.)

“They’re beginning to believe all his talk about the _girl_ , Dimitri.” Felix pulls out the chair in front of Dimitri’s desk, throwing himself into it with unnecessary force. Leg tapping incessantly, gaze averted.

As is so often the case, he is too quick for Dimitri, his mind leaping ahead while Dimitri’s lags stupidly behind. “I beg your pardon, Felix, but I do not follow.”

“That _daughter_ of his.” Felix spits the sentence out, but the furtive dart of his eyes contradicts the irritation in his tone. Dimitri is very familiar with an angry Felix – this Felix is different. He is so tense that he is almost giving off the impression of _nerves_.

Absurd. Dimitri should know better than to try to interpret Felix’s feelings when his own are so decidedly out of order.

“Lady Olivia?” Dimitri says. That, at least, he is sure about. “What of her?”

Felix’s jaw clenches. He jerks out of his chair all of a sudden, even though he has only just sat down. Starts pacing the room, agitation clear in every step. Glancing at Dimitri, then looking away as though burned.

For a moment, Dimitri can imagine standing up. Going to him, placing his hands on Felix’s shoulders to soothe his restless motion. Waiting until Felix looks him in the eye – a long wait, sometimes, for even at the best of times Felix is skittish about eye contact – and when Felix finally looks up -

Dimitri shies away from the thought. Then _nothing_.

“Denmar is making a bid against me,” Felix says at last. Still pacing, entirely uninterrupted. “I can handle him, but he’s persuading other lords that he has your favour, all because of that girl of his.”

Ah _._ Denmar and his _ambitions_ again. Anger flares bright and hot – how long must Dimitri endure the man? How much more can Dimitri _take?_ \- but he swallows it down as best he is able. “Why? Because I was kind to her?”

“ _Yes_ , Dimitri.” Felix stops in the dead centre of the room. Frustrated, exasperated. Impatient, as though he thinks Dimitri is missing something.

Dimitri is not. He remembers his previous conversations with Denmar. Understands, all of a sudden, exactly what he has missed, and what Denmar is playing at.

Greed, lies, and lust for power. Denmar, having shoved his unwilling daughter in Dimitri’s equally unwilling direction, seeks to garner as much influence as he can from his daughter being seen with the king. And now other lords and ladies smell blood and are clamouring around for a hope of their share. All of them uniting in taking jabs at Felix now there is the rare opportunity to do so, for Felix has long been an impenetrable wall between the nobility and the king. Dimitri’s right hand, his closest advisor. His voice, more often than not, because Felix is stronger than Dimitri.

Politics. More slimy, conniving politics. Poor young Olivia mere fodder in the game of power, and Felix taking the heat in Dimitri’s stead.

Dimitri cannot handle this. Not now, not ever. Every one of his actions is weighted, _every single one_. He cannot smile without causing an incident. Cannot show a young lady – a girl, a _child_ – basic human kindness and not have it twisted against him.

“I am sorry, Felix, that you suffer in my place. Denmar is truly the worst sort of man. If he were not my guest, I would have set the dogs on him long ago.” Dimitri’s voice is dark, _too_ dark. He does not want to be like this, not in front of Felix. Even trying his hardest, Dimitri still cannot seem to bury the parts of himself that Felix hates.

But then he remembers their conversation in the carriage. _People aren’t simple. You’re the one who taught me that_. Remembers Felix’s eyes in the carriage. Felix leaning in…

Everything is too hard right now. Confusing, disorienting. Dimitri veers back onto safer ground. Feeling retrospectively like a rug has been pulled from beneath him.

“Lady Olivia is only a child,” he says. “Good-natured, despite her parents. I did not wish to punish her for her father’s greed.”

Felix shifts in place. Struggling for a moment to reply, and Dimitri does not understand why – he said nothing striking. But then, this whole conversation has been strange, and he cannot escape the feeling that they are having two different conversations at once.

They were so in sync, when they were young. Not anymore.

Felix says, his voice oddly constricted, “She’s… well, she’s what, seventeen? Eighteen? She’s not that young.”

He looks at Dimitri at last – properly, his amber eyes meeting Dimitri’s blue. Piercing, breath-takingly so. He searches Dimitri’s face, tense as a bowstring.

“She _is_ young,” Dimitri insists. Because it is important. Because the very _idea_ of what Denmar is angling for is so reprehensible, so unjust to a perfectly sweet girl who has done nothing to deserve it, and he cannot hold his thoughts in. “She is young of mind, if not of years. Denmar’s aspirations are a wicked thing, Felix. What kind of father is he, to treat his daughter so? He-”

Dimitri cuts himself off. Forces himself to breathe, to turn away from his darker thoughts.

“She is a child. I cannot be cruel to her for the sake of discouraging her father, for her father is already cruel enough, but nor can I abide his clawing for power. What can I do? Advise me, please.”

Only at the end of his speech does Dimitri realise that Felix is still looking at him strangely. Tracing his eyes over Dimitri’s face, over and over, as though trying to memorise it. His lips are parted, and the tension in his shoulders has faded away.

“Dimitri…” Felix’s voice is low. Quieter than usual, soft, and it sends a shiver down Dimitri’s spine.

Dimitri realises he has been speaking too loudly, too strongly. His fists are clenched in front of him, and he is leaning forward in his chair. He subsides, tugging his hands back beneath the desk when he feels a familiar spasm come over him. Another unwelcome reminder of just how little control Dimitri has over his life.

Slowly, Felix walks back over to his chair. Sits down. He says, gruff, “You’ve done what you can.”

Dimitri laughs. He cannot help it. “I have done nothing but burden you.”

“It’s _Denmar_ who’s the burden. You’re… you’re good. Better than he deserves.”

Dimitri startles. Felix’s cheeks go red, and he turns his face away. His shoulders are hunched in, and he is sitting with his hands clutching the edge of his chair.

Then Dimitri’s mind catches up with what Felix just said, and he turns equally red, something wild and bubbly in his stomach.

Felix clears his throat. “I know where you stand now. I’ll handle it from here.”

“Felix-”

“I’ll handle it.” Firm, stubborn. Always so stubborn.

Judging by the scene Dimitri walked in on this morning, Felix _can’t_ handle it alone. But Dimitri doesn’t know how to say so diplomatically. Has no idea why Felix is suddenly so determined to do it, or why he declares it so emphatically. As though he is making a point.

“You - you look tired,” Felix says all of a sudden. “Are you sleeping?”

“Uh – well enough.” Dimitri’s heart sinks. He knows how he looks – thin and miserable and unkempt. He was hoping, rather foolishly, that no one else would notice. That no one else would have cause to look at him in the first place.

Felix is not looking at him now. He is rubbing his nose, looking anywhere _but_ Dimitri. “That’s… that’s good. Make sure you get enough sleep.”

Dimitri blinks. Opens his mouth, then shuts it again without a word.

Felix continues, all in a rush, “For your health. We don’t want you getting sick again. You’re an idiot when you get sick.”

That tone is more familiar. “I know, Felix. I apologise.”

Felix looks strangely frustrated. “Look, it’s… that’s not what I-”

He lurches forward abruptly. Spreading his arms across the desk, his hands startlingly close to Dimitri’s own. Eyes intense, and Dimitri is frozen, caught in place. Felix takes in a stuttering breath, his hand unfurling, reaching out -

Then the door opens. “My apologies for interrupting,” Dedue says. “Your lunch, Your Majesty.”

Felix jerks back as though scalded. Dedue is in the doorway, and for a moment his green eyes widen.

“My apologies,” Dedue says again.

“Ah – Dedue,” Dimitri greets. His heart is pounding. Racing, for reasons he cannot explain.

Felix jumps to his feet. Not looking at either of them, cheeks still red. “I’ll see you later.”

“Felix? But-”

Felix is already out the door. Gone in a flash of his cape. Dimitri stares after him, mouth agape. Looks to Dedue for an explanation.

Dedue is… Dedue is smiling. Soft and amused, and Dimitri does not understand.

“Have you eaten?” is all Dedue says. Stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind him.

“No, not yet,” Dimitri says. There is safety in this familiar ground. “How many times must I tell you that you are not my servant? You need not wait upon me.”

Dedue ignores him, setting the tray on Dimitri’s desk. “I have made stew.”

Dedue has made enough for them to share, and made it spicy enough that Dimitri can feel the heat in his mouth even if he cannot taste it. Dedue doles a generous serving into each of their bowls, shooting Dimitri a pointed look when Dimitri tries to protest the size of his own.

“You are seeing a lot of Felix,” Dedue says as he hands Dimitri his bowl.

“Ah – yes. I suppose so. Yes.” Dimitri can feel his flush.

Mercifully, Dedue lets him be. They eat together in companionable silence, which is a surprise in and of itself.

Dimitri was expecting Dedue to grill him about the meeting. After all, Dimitri did not handle it very well, and Dedue tends to know these things just by _looking_ at Dimitri. Dedue did not want him to go in the first place – Dimitri was expecting at least a minor interrogation.

But Dedue is quiet. Eating his stew, shooting Dimitri a fond look every now and then. Dimitri has no idea what he has done to deserve it. But after days of seeing the strain on Dedue’s face, the worry behind his eyes…

Dedue looks happier. And it is a welcome relief.

\- - -

Despite Dimitri’s best intentions, an afternoon of simple office tasks and early retirement to his chambers – under Dedue’s orders, naturally – quickly falls into disarray. He is waylaid almost at once by preparations for the upcoming ball.

There have been setbacks that are, apparently, _extremely_ urgent. So urgent that they require his personal and immediate attention, and a flurry of palace staff rushing in and out of his office. He fields inquiries and issues orders and calms Chef’s increasing hysteria as it becomes clear that his planned appetisers will not be as grand as he wanted them to be.

“This is a disaster, sire, a _disaster_ ,” Chef wails. “The feast is ruined! I should just retire. I can’t _live_ with the shame.”

“There is no need for that,” Dimitri says. “I have no doubt that despite the challenges you will produce outstanding results, as always.”

A cart carrying critical supplies had an accident, and though horse and driver are thankfully unhurt, its contents are strewn all across the highway. Fresh food and flowers trampled into the dirt, mostly unsalvageable, and Chef vacillates between bellowing the halls down and throwing himself dramatically at hard surfaces, bewailing the cruelties of his fate.

“ _How_ can I serve your guests such – such _garbage_ ,” Chef moans. “On Saint Macuil day, no less! My appetisers are famous across the country, this will _ruin_ me.”

“Well,” Dimitri says, trying not to sound as lost as he feels, “it is just a bit of pastry.”

Chef, to put it mildly, does not appreciate this remark.

Once Dimitri is done assuring Chef of the deficits in Dimitri’s culinary education – of _course_ the appetisers are important, of _course_ Dimitri appreciates his efforts, of _course_ Dimitri’s own palate is unsophisticated and he relies exclusively on Chef’s exceptional tastes to impress his guests - Dimitri has bare moments to recollect himself before Tabitha, the head servant, comes bustling in the door.

“There is a situation, Your Majesty,” she says, and Dimitri bites back a groan and gestures for her to sit down.

It is not just missing supplies causing problems – Tabitha has something of a riot on her hands. Some lords and ladies are objecting to the seating arrangements of the pre-dance feast a single week out from the event, and appeasing them throws all her plans into utter disarray. She ordered new uniforms for her staff for the feast, but the tailor’s shop has ceased work due to “a family situation” – said with great scorn and an oath to never use their services again - and their current uniforms are not up to par. The famous singer booked for the event has broken her ankle and will not make it after all, which leaves a desperate scramble to find a replacement for the main entertainment.

It is, in a nutshell, chaos.

Dimitri had one day off. _One single day_ of rest, one single, solitary day where he did not so much as set foot in his office, and the whole affair seems to have fallen apart without him.

He ends up haring all over the palace after his staff. Returning to his office only to rush straight out again, off to soothe some tempers or issue orders or examine decorations, which apparently requires his input with exactly as much urgency as any of the other myriad problems with the upcoming ball that have apparently sprung up overnight.

He is helping select the precise fold of the napkins – another task inexplicably sprung upon him – when Dedue finds him. With a polite nod to the serving girl taking Dimitri through the display (who knew there were so many ways to fold a napkin? Dimitri is king, and even he did not know), Dedue takes Dimitri by the arm and marches him out of there.

“Dedue – _Dedue_ ,” Dimitri hisses. Dedue’s grip is like iron, and Dimitri has to race to keep pace with him. Propriety forces Dimitri to walk alongside Dedue like they are simply going for a stroll rather than him being visibly dragged along behind his vassal.

“You are required elsewhere, Your Majesty,” Dedue says. Then, raising his voice, “These matters do not require the king’s personal attention.”

There is no reasoning with Dedue when he is like this. Mercifully he releases Dimitri’s arm as they walk through the corridors, though he gives him a warning look. Dedue is patient, far more patient than Dimitri, and tenacious – he will happily chase Dimitri across the entirety of the palace if that is what it takes to get his way.

Dimitri complies. Not happy about it – there is _work_ to do - but too exhausted and frazzled to come up with an argument that would work on Dedue.

“Where are your aides?” Dedue asks when they reach Dimitri’s office. Not to continue working but to pack up for the day, if Dedue’s tidying of Dimitri’s desk is any indication.

“Busy,” Dimitri mutters, mutinous. “Everyone is _busy_.”

Dedue ignores his attitude completely. Sets Dimitri’s desk to rights with brisk, familiar movements, then collects Dimitri’s cloak from the back of his chair.

“You are working too hard,” Dedue says. “On matters that do not require your attention.”

But they _do_. Everything is chaos without Dimitri at the helm. “I am fine, Dedue, and I am doing what needs to be done. Am I not even allowed to do that?”

Dimitri hates himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Petulant, sulky, like a defiant child. Dedue does not deserve this. Forced to intervene, yet again, in Dimitri’s poor management of his own life. But Dimitri does not know how to stop.

“It is just a dance, Dimitri. It hardly matters.”

Dimitri has been thinking much the same on-and-off with all of the minor tasks brought before him. But now Dedue says it -

“I am not above their concerns. Do you think me the sort of king who holds myself above my people?”

Dedue does not rise to the bait. Dimitri can see the moment where Dedue decides to stop arguing with him entirely – a wise choice, all things considered. Even Dimitri can see how ridiculous he is being. He is rattled, and stressed, and his mouth is running ahead of his mind. Unstable again – because Dedue is right, and he has overworked himself, and the _fact_ Dedue is right is even more grating - and Dimitri has gone irrational again.

Dimitri knows this. But he cannot stop.

“My predecessors whipped them,” comes hissing out of Dimitri’s mouth, entirely of its own volition. “Beat and whipped the staff for supposed infractions, yet would not acknowledge their existence when they passed them in the halls. They disdained the people who fed them and washed their clothes and waited upon their every whim. Is that what you wish of me, Dedue? Is _that_ the kind of master I should be?”

_Stop_ , Dimitri. _Stop_.

“Your Majesty-”

“Oh, so we are back to ‘Your Majesty’, now are we? Now you address me as-”

Dimitri cuts himself off – too late. He is sneering, spitting, disdainful. The damage is already done. Dedue is a careful man, and he is still so careful with Dimitri’s name. Careful with the balance between them, constantly aware of the difference between their stations, never wanting to push too far. Careful, because the gap between them means more to him than it ever has to Dimitri.

Dedue is a careful man, and Dimitri is not. Dimitri has stepped on something that, for all the years of their friendship, is still fragile. Fragile because it is important to Dedue.

Dedue says nothing. Dimitri hears him take in a slow breath, folding Dimitri’s cloak neatly over his arm, and Dimitri cannot breathe. Wishes he had never gotten out of bed this morning. Wishes he never woke up.

Dedue’s happiness from earlier is long gone.

“Let us return to your chambers, Your Majesty,” Dedue says. Perfectly steady. Perfectly unreadable.

“I am sorry, Dedue,” Dimitri blurts out through frozen lips. “I am…”

“I know.”

It is what Sylvain said, too, with the same calm resignation. Because Dimitri’s friends, the people he loves the most in the world, _expect_ him to hurt them.

The realisation sinks into him, deep into his bones.

“I am sorry, Dedue,” Dimitri says again. “I hate that I am cruel to you. I hate this. I…”

Even with Dedue, some words are beyond him.

“You are unwell,” Dedue says. “You are not always so.”

Isn’t he? Isn’t this who Dimitri is, at the very heart of him? A wounded, angry animal, lashing out at any hand that reaches toward him?

Dedue is giving him an out. An excuse, but Dimitri does not want excuses.

“You should be angry with me.” It is half statement, half plea.

Dedue sighs. “I have no cause to be angry. You have not hurt me.”

“But I…”

Dedue shakes his head. “You are not in your right mind. I feared that stress would cause your recovery to regress, and I was right. You need to rest, Your Majesty.”

There is no smugness, no reprimand. Only steady, unyielding kindness, despite the fact that Dedue warned him a hundred times and Dimitri refused to listen or to learn. And Dimitri wants to argue with his kindness. To tell him that Dedue deserves better – so, so much better – than this. That Dedue gives up too much for a man who is so unworthy, so ungrateful for the sacrifices Dedue makes.

Dimitri is tired. Tired of everything, tired of himself. Tired of going endlessly up and down, back and forth. Thinking he has clawed his way out of madness only for it to turn around and swallow him back up.

Only a few hours ago, everything was all right. They were eating lunch together, calm and content and ordinary. But now everything has changed again, and Dimitri is so tired.

“Will I ever get better, Dedue?” A question, but a rhetorical one. Dimitri knows the answer, deep down. He knows, just as he knows Dedue will tell him otherwise.

“Of course. You have done it before.”

Perhaps. Maybe. Dimitri keeps putting one foot in front of the other, but he does not cling on to hope.

Worse, then better, then worse again. An endless cycle. Dimitri does not see a way out.

The words slip out of him, quiet and hoarse, entirely unbidden, “I cannot keep living like this.”

Dimitri has never spoken the thought aloud. Never admitted even to himself the depths of his own hopelessness, the dark, ugly, painful thing that lurks at the back of his mind.

Dedue knows – of course he knows. Dedue cannot help but know. There is a reason Dedue searches his chambers for sharp objects, a reason Dedue barricades the balcony door. A reason Dedue watches him so closely, as though afraid Dimitri will slip away.

But Dimitri has never said it aloud. Never meant to voice such an admission. Because it is now, and only now, that Dimitri really hurts Dedue. Only now that Dimitri sees the pain all over Dedue’s face.

“I am trying,” Dimitri says all in a rush. “I swear I am. I am not – planning anything, I just…” Dimitri takes a breath. “I do not know what to do. I am… I am afraid. Of what I might do.”

It is like ripping the stitches from a wound. Like peeling off a layer of his own skin. Like meeting his own gaze in the mirror after so many years of shying away, and Dimitri is shaking. Hurting, because he has hurt Dedue. Hurting because he has hurt himself.

But it feels… better, somehow. Better, to have it out in the open. Like he has reached inside his own chest and pulled something out of it, struggling and bloody and painful as it is. A truth he has been hiding for years, brought into the light at last.

It hurts to speak of, to even acknowledge that it is there. But now Dimitri has done it, the weight is less painful to bear.

“You… you are my family,” Dedue says at last, and Dimitri flinches. Dedue is struggling to get the words out. Struggling just as much as Dimitri, in his own quiet way. “You are the only family I have left. I cannot…”

Dedue does not finish the sentence, but Dimitri understands. _I cannot lose you too_.

“I know,” Dimitri says. Quiet, painful, because it is another truth that has been too hard to acknowledge. That Dimitri is loved. That there are people in the world who care for him – _him_ , Dimitri, not just the king. That they would hurt, without him there.

Part of him could not accept it to be true. Another part of him - the dark, aching, part - did not want to.

“I know.”

\- - -

Honesty is an exhausting thing.

Dimitri is in bed by six in the evening. Fast asleep, and for the first time in a long time he sleeps through the night. Wakes before sunrise with the vague recollection of nightmares, but not like they have been, not gory and graphic and all-too-real.

Dimitri sleeps, but he is still tired when he wakes, so early the sun has not yet risen. He still has to drag himself out of bed and into the washroom, carefully avoiding his reflection. Still feels unsettled, and cagey, and far too vulnerable. Too much of him on display, and it is mortifying, because he told Dedue things yesterday that Dimitri refused to tell even himself.

Dimitri is still so tired. But he is lighter, now that his darkest secret has been pulled from his chest.

It is early. Dimitri sits down at the piano and runs through his scales, through simple songs he knows by heart. Flips through his songbooks and plays his favourites, without rhyme or reason or discipline, without the endless ticking of the metronome to keep him in time.

He just plays. Lets the music wash over him. Lets himself enjoy it, frivolous and pointless as it is. He is not very good at the piano, but it does not matter. He likes it. Plays because he likes it, and that is reason enough.

The sun rises slowly, bathing his kingdom in the soft light of spring. And Dimitri plays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** This chapter deals explicitly with suicidal ideation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Given current circumstances, I’m adding a warning for fever-based illness. Few details provided, but please approach with caution if it could be triggering for you, and stay safe out there. xx

It is more than Dimitri’s turn, by now, to invite Sylvain out for a drink.

Dimitri catches him in the corridor before yet another boring formal dinner. Both of them are running late – Dimitri because he received an urgent message from his border scouts, Sylvain because he is Sylvain – and Dimitri grabs him by the arm and tugs him into a shadowed alcove.

“How bold, Your Majesty,” Sylvain says with his typical grin, though Dimitri ignores the implications entirely.

Dimitri comes with a simple invitation. It still takes him a moment to muster his courage, fighting down the voice in his head that hisses _Sylvain does not want to_. “Do you want to go out for a drink after dinner?”

“Sure,” Sylvain shrugs, as easy as that. Dimitri breathes out. “Why the secrecy, though?”

Dimitri blinks. Takes note of his surroundings, and of the hand he has kept on Sylvain’s arm, keeping them both in the shadows. As though their meeting is somehow clandestine.

Dimitri’s face heats. Abruptly, he lets go. “Oh. Well. No reason.”

Dimitri should not be off gallivanting around town with friends, is why. There is work to be done and, no matter what Dedue says, it is all important. It is just that… the summit is almost over, and Sylvain will be going back to Gautier. Dimitri has no intention of going wild – just sitting in Sylvain’s company for a while.

He is allowed an evening, surely. Surely that is all right.

He can feel himself getting twitchy again. It is dying down, his body slowly coming back under his control, but he has not quite shaken it yet. He clasps his hands behind his back to hide the movement of his fingers.

Sylvain’s eyes crinkle. He slings an arm over Dimitri’s shoulders - for no particular reason Dimitri can discern - and leads him back into the corridor, shaking him as they go.

“You’re an odd one, you know that?” Sylvain says, and for a moment it stings, because Dimitri _knows_. Knows how ridiculous it is that it is in matters of _friendship_ he struggles. That he can hear petitions and pass judgments and preside over the Council, that he can lead parades and give speeches and make decisions on behalf of his people, yet he struggles to ask a friend out for a casual drink.

But Sylvain’s arm is warm and solid around Dimitri’s shoulders, his voice fond and teasing. _Odd_ , he said. Dimitri is odd, and the sting of it fades. For perhaps the first time, he finds it in himself to laugh about it.

They make their way to Sylvain’s favourite tavern after the pomp and ceremony of the formal dinner. Sylvain speaks to the barkeep, and they are quickly directed to a private table, relatively well-concealed from prying eyes. Sylvain orders on Dimitri’s behalf, as charming and good-natured as ever, while the barkeep visibly sweats in Dimitri’s presence. Trying desperately to look unaffected while also paying him utmost respect, hands trembling as he smooths his apron incessantly down.

It is always like this. Everywhere Dimitri goes.

Once the barkeep hurries off to fill their orders, Sylvain pulls off his cloak and overcoat with a sigh of contentment, piling them haphazardly in a corner of the booth. He pushes up his shirtsleeves and slings one of his arms over the back of the booth, sprawled out and perfectly at ease.

Dimitri takes his cloak off. Folds it carefully beside him. His one concession to the heat of the tavern.

“So, what’s the latest with His Royal Majesty?” Sylvain says. “I want to hear all your news.”

He is smiling, easy, friendly, but his eyes are sharp as ever. Testing, because Sylvain remembers their last conversation as well as Dimitri does.

Dimitri owes Sylvain a great deal. He does not like to speak of himself – it does not come naturally, even with those he has known most of his life – but Sylvain is asking him to. Expectant, even if he will not voice that expectation. So Dimitri takes a breath, and starts talking.

It is more of a ramble than a coherent monologue. He tells Sylvain of the book he is reading, and of Chef’s dramatic breakdown in light of changes to his menu. Tells him of Dedue’s latest plant acquisition – a sweet little pot plant that looked near death before Dedue brought it back from the market – that sits now alive and well on the windowsill in Dimitri’s office.

It is chatter, nothing of consequence. Not things Dimitri usually talks about, all the same. It gets harder when Dimitri goes to tell Sylvain of his music – there is something so personal about it, something private, some part of Dimitri he keeps only for himself. But he wants to be better. At sharing pieces of himself. He wants to be.

“I am learning a new song on the piano,” he says. Not as hard as he thought it might be. “On my own, so it is slow-going. I have not seen my tutor much during the summit, but I shall return to formal lessons soon.”

Discipline. Dimitri likes discipline. He understands it.

“Oh? Who’s the piece by?” Sylvain says.

“Laurent.”

Sylvain whistles. “I like Laurent. I once had a _very_ pleasant evening to the tune of Laurent.” Dimitri is absolutely not going to inquire as to what he means by that. Judging by Sylvain’s grin, he not only knows, he also finds it extremely funny indeed. “Very romantic, Laurent. Maybe I should follow your lead and take up an instrument. Nothing like a serenade to win some hearts.”

“I am astonished you never have, if that is the case,” Dimitri mutters, taking a drink, and Sylvain laughs. Then, because the thought suddenly occurs to Dimitri, (and he has said enough now, surely that is enough), “Have you heard anything from Ingrid?”

Sylvain grimaces. “You bet I have. You should have _seen_ the letter she sent me – everything’s fine, don’t look so tense. No casualties on either side, but she hurt her arm and she’s in a foul temper about it. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it in her formal report, if she manages to censor out the curse words. Don’t know _what_ those knights are teaching her…”

Sylvain’s eyes go distant. Good humour evaporating, though he tries not to show it. Takes a swig of his drink, pasting on a smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Sylvain, what is it?” Dimitri says.

“Nothing, don’t mind me. Just got lost in thought, there.”

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain taps his fingers against the table. Considering. Meets Dimitri’s gaze, and for a moment it is a challenge, a warning not to pry beneath his mask. Dimitri recognises it, just as Sylvain recognises the same in him – it is a flaw they both share, after all.

But Dimitri is trying. He is trying, and Sylvain relents.

“I’m going to have to deal with Sreng properly, sooner or later. The situation with them isn’t… well, it isn’t great, put it that way. I’ll have to go to the Clans. Talk, work out some sort of arrangement.” A breath. The briefest of pauses. “I don’t want to be like my predecessors.”

There is a world in that sentence. A hundred things in one – invasion and annexation and Sylvain’s troubled relationship with his father, tangentially related but all blurred together. Dimitri considers his reply, studying the lines of Sylvain’s face. The troubled look Sylvain drowns with another mouthful of liquor.

“I understand that,” Dimitri says at last. “The history between Fódlan and Sreng is troubled, and House Gautier has borne the brunt of it. We all carry the legacies of our forebears, whether we wish it or not. There is no erasing the past, but… these are changing times. There is a path forward that will not lead to more bloodshed, though I have no doubt it will not be easy. If there is anything I have learned, it is that the right path never is. But you are not your father, nor am I mine. Know that whatever you decide, you may rely on my support and counsel.”

Sylvain is silent for a long moment. His lips twist. “You’re always so serious,” he says, which is familiar enough. But then, abruptly, “I’m glad you’re king, you know? I don’t think I ever told you.”

Dimitri startles. Feels… something. Something hard to put a name to. Something warm and painful at the same time.

Glad that Dimitri is king. _Glad_. His stomach twists.

“I thought about what you said,” he bursts out. A non-sequitur, but he thinks Sylvain will understand anyway. “And you… you were right.”

He sees it register. A brief flash of something almost… surprised, almost _vulnerable_ on Sylvain’s face. Covered quickly by a shake of Sylvain’s head, a laugh, a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I need another drink,” he says. “Excuse me, barkeep!”

With anyone else, Dimitri would probably be embarrassed, probably think he had said too much. But this is Sylvain. And Dimitri can see him clearly, for the first time in what feels like forever. 

Sylvain is a more complicated man than he likes to let on. Cynical, despite the ever-present smile on his face. Hard to pin down, contradictory, guarded. Loyal. Loyal for reasons Dimitri will never understand.

As soon as there is a new drink in his hand Sylvain is off. Talking a mile a minute, regaling Dimitri with his latest flirtations and romantic mishaps, telling bawdy jokes and otherwise making a menace of himself. Making up for his display of vulnerability with a barrage of anecdotes about his own poor behaviour, as is so often his way. Diffusing the tension between them.

Dimitri’s friend. His friend.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says. _You lock everybody out, Dimitri. You’re always so far away_. “I was wondering if I might get your opinion on something.”

“Sure.”

It is not easy, perhaps will never be easy, for Dimitri to speak the things that weigh on his mind. There is so much of him that is twisted and ugly, so much of him he cannot bear to let out. But… he can try. He can _try_.

“Sir Wesley came to see me,” he says. It has been lingering at the back of his mind for days. Rushes out of him in a flood. “He asked to join the Knights of the Kingdom, but I have yet to give him an answer. I confess I have no answer to give. He is, by all accounts, an upstanding knight, but I have my reservations. Not… not fair ones, I think. I hope you might be able to give me a more reasonable assessment of his capabilities.”

Dimitri is petty. Shamefully so. During the war he understood that the value of a skilled fighter outweighed all else, and Sir Wesley’s skill is undeniable. He could not stand against Dimitri in the ring, true enough, but few can. Sir Wesley is an excellent fighter, a Knight of Seiros no less, and a skilled diplomat to boot. It is a failing indeed that Dimitri cannot see him with a clear mind.

But he cannot. And since he cannot, perhaps Sylvain can see for him.

“He’s a… strong personality,” Sylvain says. Amused – but not judging Dimitri, and he feels his shoulders relax. “But I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear that.”

“You think it strange?”

“Not now that I think about it. He’s an ambitious sort of man, and the Archbishop’s not exactly pushing for more power. The Knights of Seiros are still a big name, of course, but the Knights of the Kingdom are getting up there. And besides, things aren’t how they used to be. Your knights are now the knights of the whole of Fódlan, not just Faerghus. Wesley probably thinks he’s better off serving you.”

 _Ambitious_. Interesting. “Joining the Knights of Seiros is a great honour. Is he so disloyal?”

“I wouldn’t say that. But he’s the type of person who’s always looking for a challenge. Kind of like Felix – the war’s long over, but he’s still working to master his swordsmanship.”

Felix. Dimitri was trying so hard not to bring him up. So hard not to voice his suspicions, because he has no right to involve himself in Felix’s relationship with Sir Wesley in any capacity. He already disgraced himself when Sir Wesley made the request. But Sylvain mentions it first, and Dimitri’s willpower is weak as ever.

“Did you know?” he says. His heart is hammering. “That the two of them were… involved?”

“Of course.” A beat. Sylvain looks surprised. “Why? Did he not tell you?”

“No. Not until after.” Dimitri swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. Stomach full of lead – and he does not want to do this, not here, not now, not when he was doing so well, keeping his fractured self together. Sylvain is Felix’s best friend – of course he knew. It makes sense, for the very same reasons Felix did not tell Dimitri.

Their relationship is a troubled, strained thing. Of course he would not tell Dimitri.

Sylvain heaves a sigh. “Don’t take it to heart. You know how Felix gets about you. And… it’s easier for him, you know?”

Dimitri swallows again. He was doing _so well_ …

“Look, Dimitri.” Sylvain leans into the table, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry about it. Just let him do his thing, all right? It’s hard for him, and surely you can’t blame him for that. The whole… Wesley thing.” Sylvain waves a single, all-encompassing hand. “Honestly, it was for the best that you knew nothing about it. You had enough on your plate without worrying about Felix. When Wesley proposed -”

“What?”

Proposed. _Proposed_.

That cannot be. It cannot -

Dimitri’s ears are ringing. He cannot even make out what Sylvain is saying.

Proposed. Sir Wesley proposed. Sir Wesley proposed.

“-not tell you that part? Oh damn, he’s gonna kill me. You won’t tell him I told you, will you? I swear it -”

“He asked Felix to marry him?” Dimitri does not even mean to interrupt. He cannot move. He can hardly speak around the bursting, blooming pain in his chest, so sharp and sudden that every breath is agony.

 _Proposed, proposed, proposed_.

He has to check. He has to. In case of an error, in case of some sort of mistake.

“Ugh, I thought he already _told_ you, I -”

Yes, then. Yes.

Dimitri thought he was done with these blows. Thought there was nothing left that could strike him so hard, so deeply. He stares at his glass. Barely seeing it, vaguely following a drop of condensation as it travels slowly downwards. Sir Wesley asked Felix to marry him.

Dimitri is cold all over. Frozen from the inside out, so cold he can barely move his lips. _Sir Wesley asked Felix to marry him_. It makes sense. It does. Sir Wesley, of all the people in the world, is a match for Felix. It makes sense, and it does not matter what Dimitri feels about it. Dimitri has no right to feel anything, after all he has done to Felix, no right to even the faintest of objections. No right to this howling, crushing grief, threatening to swallow him whole. He has survived far worse than this, he knows. Knows logically, even if he cannot convince his heart of it.

The world does not stop. He is still breathing, still feels the table beneath his arms, the familiar weight of fabric about his skin. Real things. Oddly dissonant, all the same. Talk and laughter all over the tavern. Sylvain’s gesticulating hands. The barkeep hurrying past with a tray of drinks, pausing to bow awkwardly to Dimitri as he goes.

It still hurts. But Dimitri has hurt before. Hurts all the time. He will live.

“I am happy for Felix,” he says. Realises it is true a moment later. He wants Felix to be happy. Wants that more than anything, even through the pain. He just wants Felix to be happy.

“What? Why?”

That unexpected line of questioning jerks Dimitri out of the spiral of his mind. Back to the table, and Sylvain comes slowly into focus. His head is cocked to the side, brow furrowed as if in confusion.

“Sir Wesley proposed,” Dimitri repeats.

Sylvain drops his head into his hands. Groans loudly, then looks up to fix Dimitri with a _look_. Says, flatly, “ _Dimitri_. Come on.”

He speaks as though he thinks Dimitri should understand something. Like Dimitri is missing something, but – Dimitri does not know.

Sylvain mutters something under his breath. “Look, it was a bad time for Felix, all right? The whole thing was a mess, and you getting sick knocked him around a bit. Don’t tell him I said this, but he didn’t exactly cope well.”

Felix was angry. Dimitri remembers that – so, so angry.

“Dimitri.” A huff of air. Sylvain’s expression disbelieving, as though Dimitri is being dense. Sylvain leans forward, looking Dimitri directly in the eye. “Felix said no.”

\- - -

Dimitri does not sleep well that night.

It is not like it often is. Not the voices just on the edge of his hearing keeping him awake. Not nightmares leaving him shaking and retching and desperate for a breath of air, terrified of what awaits him if he lays his head back down on his pillow.

He is just… sad.

(Confused, too. Not sure how to explain what he is feeling. Because the grief was so sharp and then it wasn’t, and it has all gotten mangled up in a ball of hurt and elation and confusion _about_ the elation and confusion about everything else, because Dimitri has no idea what is going on and how he _missed_ all this, and why nobody told him, and why the thought of Felix getting married is so acutely painful to him in the first place or why Felix's refusal fills him with joy. And that brings up other thoughts, all the ones he pushes to the very back of his mind about Felix and what Dimitri wants, because he does not _know_ what he wants or why he wants it and he thinks about it as little as possible because it is _all too much_.

So – sad. He settles on sad. It is easier.)

He wakes before sunrise. Mind whirling, stopping and starting again like a creaky machine, clunking down one train of thought then veering suddenly down another. Unstable, screaming a thousand thoughts at once. Scales tipped all-too-easily, the delicate balance of his mind crumbling down in the space of one conversation. Just one.

Dimitri is king. The pressure will never stop. He wants to be worthy, tries so hard to be the king his people deserve, fractured and divided as they are. Tries so hard to be good to _all_ of them, never authoritarian, always just. The world was ripped apart and pieced hastily back together, and Adrestia and the Leceister Alliance are not _like_ Faerghus, not like the culture he grew up with and the homeland he was destined to rule. Frightened, broken, utterly chaotic, the very foundations of their social hierarchy crumbling into the dust and leaving a foreign king as their leader supreme, and even the greatest ruler in history could not make the upheaval easy.

Dimitri is not the greatest. Dimitri is a sinner, hands awash with blood. A warrior who butchered his way around the battlefield, unstoppable, unmerciful, now asking for the people to trust him. Dimitri is a madman. It comes and goes with the tides, sometimes in crashing waves, others in little more than a trickle. But it is constant. Incontrovertible. Inescapable.

Dedue thinks Dimitri can get better. He really believes it – he does not lie, even when cushioning his blows. Dedue thinks Dimitri can get through it, can survive it, can still rule his people despite the imbalances in his mind.

That is just Dedue. Hopeful, optimistic, wilfully blind, perhaps, because his love and loyalty for Dimitri eclipse all else. As for Dimitri… he does not believe it, not really. But he can try. He _wants_ to try.

He pulls himself out of bed. Sits on the edge of it in his nightclothes, staring at his hands, the sky outside still completely dark. Heavy, so heavy. But he takes a breath and pushes himself to his feet anyway. He drinks some water. He ties his hair back out of his eye. He settles himself in front of his piano, because he has hours before he is needed. Hours just to himself, nothing required of him at all.

He plays his scales, first, then flicks through his songbook. Plays whatever takes his fancy – not always well, but the melodies sweep over him in a familiar wave. His playing improves as he goes on, his mind slowly redirecting its scattered attention towards reading the music.

Flats, sharps, rests, rhythm. Trying to express the melody, to emote, playing legato and staccato, crescendos and decrescendos. Playing with both hands together, his fingering slipping in one hand the moment he focuses too much on the other.

Balance. So much to think about all at once. Mind and body working to create the music, to make it beautiful, to speak to the heart.

Balance.

It helps. Dimitri dresses for the day, black on black. Glances in the mirror only to be arrested by his own appearance – he is ghostly. Too thin, too pale, and the black bag under his remaining eye grows ever more pronounced. Not handsome, not even a little. Frightening.

Except… that child at the opera took one look at him and smiled. Young Lady Olivia called him kind, despite the difficult circumstances her father pushed – and continues pushing - her into. Stammers and stutters because she is shy, not because she is afraid of Dimitri.

Dimitri’s thoughts skitter. Push in another direction, because even if Dimitri is not _frightening_ he is still a terrible-looking man. Felix told him so himself – _you look terrible_. Dimitri does not even remember when Felix said it, only that the words have stuck with him, adhering themselves to his mind. Dimitri looks terrible. Nothing like the handsome Sir Wesley, in all his golden glory.

(And yet when Sir Wesley asked for his hand, Felix said _no_.)

Dimitri shakes himself. His mind is unstoppable in its spiralling, but none of it is helpful. Hardly worth listening to. Distracting, but… it is what it is. Another breath, and Dimitri leaves his chambers behind. Pulls on his mask, mustering what warmth and steadiness as he can as he makes his way through the corridors.

Dimitri can do this. He can.

Tabitha, his head servant, is the first visitor of the day.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” she says with a brisk bow. “If you have a moment, I have some questions about the upcoming ball.”

Dimitri nods, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. Tabitha, to his great surprise, pulls out a sheet of paper with no less than _fifteen_ questions for him. Nothing for him to sign, or questions she puts to him purely as formality (and with provisions and plans already in place, anticipating his answer). She is usually independent – and, truthfully, has a tendency to arrange things the way _she_ thinks they should be, no matter what he has to say about the matter.

Yet here she sits. Asking him about the decorations.

“With Your Majesty’s consent, we thought we would arrange the hall in green, in honour of Saint Macuil Day. Blaiddyd colours are traditionally blue, of course, but as the ball is a special event, we thought we might break with tradition for the evening.”

“Yes, of course,” he agrees.

But that, apparently, is not enough. She launches into detail about the swathes of fabric and candle-holders and the napkins ( _more_ about the napkins, Dimitri thought he was done with napkins). Seeking approval on minor details – and uncharacteristically so.

Dimitri looks closer. She is sitting stiffer today, too. Always a stern woman, but her expression is particularly closed-off. Her usual air of knowledge and competency has been replaced entirely by an uncharacteristic timidity. She is not a nervous person. Not usually.

Something has changed.

“I trust your judgment in this matter, Tabitha,” he tells her. “In this and in _all_ matters pertaining to the arrangements within the palace. I will happily sign off on whatever you and your staff deem appropriate.” She still looks unhappy, so he leans in. Catches her eye and says, carefully, “I have complete confidence in your abilities - you will not find me displeased. And you need have no fear of reprimand should anything go awry.”

He says ‘reprimand’. He means ‘punishment’, for Tabitha’s former employers taught her all-too-well the consequences of their petty displeasure. Taught her and the people under her, all the people who looked to her for protection she could not give them.

Tabitha inclines her head. Says, neat and formal, “The staff are eager to please you, sire, and to make an impression upon your noble guests.”

“I have no doubt they will. You always exceed my expectations.”

Despite the praise, Tabitha’s lips only tighten. She does not reply immediately. Seems to be wrestling with something uncomfortable.

Dimitri only has so much patience and subtlety in him. He has never been good at weaselling information out of people. He is too direct, too straight-forward, but he does not know how else to be. “Forgive me, Tabitha, but is something the matter?”

Her eyes flash up. Searching his face – he hopes she finds reassurance there. She is sizing him up, studying him. Clearly has something to say, though is deeply reluctant to say it.

He pushes further. Tries again. “I do not claim to be a perfect master, but I hope I have given you no cause to fear my anger. No ill will come to you for speaking the truth, Tabitha. You or any of the staff.”

Her eyes flicker. But minutely – ever so minutely – she relaxes. “Forgive me, sire, I assumed the matter must have already come to your attention. I have received some feedback from your guests that our services are… not to their satisfaction.”

Whatever Dimitri was expecting to hear, it was not that. “Feedback? From whom?”

In the face of his genuine surprise, her lip quirks. Smooths quickly back into professional detachment. “It would be indelicate to say, Your Majesty. Rest assured I have already taken action with my staff, and strive for the highest calibre of service at all times.”

Dimitri can feel his lips thin. There is a lot Tabitha is not saying, he knows full well. “From whom? You may speak freely. I am not a delicate man.”

Her lip quirks again. She takes a breath – bracing herself, he thinks. But she says, quite steady, “Lord Denmar, sire.”

Dimitri is not quick enough to hide his instinctive response – anger, disgust. His expression flickers, lip curling before he manages to get it back under control.

Denmar… of course it is Denmar. That wretched man has been busy, it would seem.

“I see,” he says when he is able to.

Tabitha does not look concerned by his flare of irritation. If anything… she looks oddly _pleased_.

“I believe His Lordship feels our services to his daughter… fail to meet expectation,” she says, delicate and very, very formal. “Begging pardon, sire, for speaking of things far beyond my station, but he seems to have certain… expectations regarding the young lady, and her” - a cough - “status.”

As cautious and diplomatic as Tabitha is, Dimitri takes her meaning clear as day: Denmar has been berating the servants for not treating his daughter like the king’s _future_ _bride_. That useless, worthless – Dimitri will have his _head_ -

Dimitri’s hands spasm, and he claws back from the dark fog descending on his mind. Violent, frightening, because Dimitri is not a safe man when he is angry. His hands spasm again – give him a weapon, let him show Denmar just who he is playing with – but no. _No_.

He takes one agonising breath, then another. Forcing the red tinge out of his vision, but it is no easy task. Not only is Denmar poisoning his court, and humiliating his poor young daughter, and attacking Dimitri’s second-in-command, now he is abusing Dimitri’s _staff_.

Dimitri’s staff. The violence of his anger goes suddenly, icily cold. He lowers his hands again, perfectly still. Studies Tabitha carefully – clear eyes, normal posture, no visible signs of damage.

But Dimitri is not stupid. He knows how men like Denmar treat servants.

“Lord Denmar goes too far,” he says, low and growling. “Did he strike anyone?”

If he did… Dimitri’s hand balls into a fist.

“No, sire.”

That is something. Dimitri forces himself to take another breath. They are unharmed – but it is still not enough. “Did he upset them?”

Tabitha is silent a long moment. Violence is one thing, hurt feelings another. Her domain, to soothe the distress of her staff, not the king’s.

But he asks. And after a pause, she answers.

“A few tears here and there, Your Majesty. Yelling, that sort of thing.”

Still that same hesitation. Though it is little wonder that she came to him so cautious if she thought there was any chance that Dimitri had fallen in with the likes of Denmar. If she thought Dimitri intended to take Denmar’s daughter as his _wife_ , despite Denmar’s vile manner and simpering deceits and –

Focus. Tabitha is still holding something back. Dimitri leans across the desk. Pins her with a heavy stare. “What else?”

Tabitha’s lips twist. Her eyes dart across his face. Hanging in the balance between honesty and diplomacy.

Honesty wins out.

“Daisy Bethell was assigned as his daughter’s maid, sire, but he found her unfit for the position and insisted on a replacement. Daisy was ready to resign, but I talked her out of it.”

Daisy Bethell. A lady’s maid, far removed from Dimitri’s personal sphere, but even he knows her by name. A gentle girl, young, disfigured by misfired black magic during the war – no fault of her own - and desperately shy of her features. A hard worker. Conscientious, diligent, and highly capable, and Dimitri knows Tabitha prizes her highly. She expects high standards of all her staff, and Daisy never fails to exceed them.

Tightly constrained as it is, he can hear Tabitha’s anger all too clearly. Dimitri cannot begin to imagine what manner of cruelty left Denmar’s lips for Daisy – well-respected and loved by her colleagues – to be on the verge of resignation. Tabitha will never tell him, for she keeps her staff’s confidences well, but it must have been bad.

Enough. Dimitri has had _enough_.

No matter his madness, his weakness, his failures as a king. No matter that Denmar is the sort of man who has taken all of his civility and politeness and twisted it into some grotesque bid for influence. No matter that Dimitri’s only sin lies in being kind to Denmar’s daughter, and Denmar has taken that and wielded it as a weapon in his court.

The court is one thing. The place for slimy, grimy politics, repulsive as they are. Dimitri’s staff are a different matter entirely.

“Tabitha,” he says. “Please tell Daisy that I find her exemplary in every respect. She is a credit to my household, and I am dismayed to find her so… unappreciated. The blame does not lie with her. I could not be more satisfied with her work. Please see to it that she is taken care of for the rest of the summit, and that this has no impact upon her status. Her dismissal was not a reasonable one.”

Tabitha's usually stern expression softens into a smile, her eyes crinkling. “I will tell her, Your Majesty.”

“As for the matter of the ball, you may be assured of my satisfaction with your decision-making. You need not bring these questions to me. You are eminently more qualified to decide upon such matters, and I give you leave to do so.”

Tabitha folds up her paper. Relaxed. Still smiling. “Of course, sire. Thank you.”

“Is that all you require from me this morning?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Tabitha stands. Dusts herself off, business-like. Says, looking infinitely more like her usual self, “I’ll have someone bring you some breakfast. You look hungry.”

Dimitri huffs a laugh. She is back to blunt again, back to criticism implied in the meaningful once-over she gives him. Her stiff, careful formality entirely gone.

Back to rights. No lasting damage done.

“Attentive as ever, Tabitha, thank you,” he says. “And while you are at it, one more thing. Tell Lord Denmar I will see him in my office at once.”

Her eyebrows rise, but she says nothing. Bows and bustles out, considerably more energetic than she was when she entered.

Dimitri leans back in his chair. He cannot afford to be impulsive. He is still mad, still erratic. But this… this is something he can do. Something he _needs_ to do. His anger settles into something sharp and deadly, something entirely under his own control. A weapon.

Denmar has no idea who he is dealing with.

Dimitri stands. Paces over to the window, thinking. Patient and still as he waits for the knock on the door, for Denmar to simper and fawn his way into Dimitri’s office, that false smile painted all over his face.

Denmar is smirking when he comes in.

He does not keep smirking for long.

\- - -

Dimitri retreats back to his chambers around lunch time. Tired in a bone-deep way, for once Denmar is dealt with and his righteous anger is gone, the misery creeps right back in. It is… well, not _all right_ , but not unexpected. Dimitri’s moods are what they are, at present. Sometimes he feels too much, sometimes nothing at all. A pattern, a cycle. Transient. He will weather this storm, as he has all the rest.

It is a relief to be done with Denmar, if only for the time being. To have put him back in his place. As sorry as Dimitri is for poor Daisy, Denmar’s cruelty was exactly the ammunition Dimitri needed. He is the king - he owes his time and his patience to every one of his subjects. Dimitri does not rule with fear and an iron fist - _will_ not - and his court is a place where people may speak freely, may voice their ambitions and complaints no matter how great or petty, and Dimitri will _listen_.

Dimitri’s household, though, is another matter. A boundary not to be crossed. And in abusing Daisy, Denmar crossed it.

Dimitri is tired. He goes upstairs. Climbs into bed and allows himself the reprieve of some badly-needed sleep. For once, it comes easily.

He wakes to Dedue checking in on him an hour later, lunch tray in hand and a deep furrow in his brow. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri rubs sleepily at his eye. Pushes himself upright, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Mm.”

“I am sorry to wake you,” Dedue says. “I have brought you lunch.”

Dimitri shuffles out of bed obligingly. Sits down. Shovels food into his mouth, blinking blearily in the bright afternoon light.

“Are you well?” Dedue repeats.

Dimitri looks up from his bread. Dedue is frowning. Concerned – and of course he is. Dimitri never sleeps during the day. Not unless he is sick, or in the worst sort of distress. No wonder Dedue is concerned to walk in to find him napping.

 _I am fine_ is on the tip of Dimitri’s tongue, but he reconsiders. It never soothes Dedue, no matter how many times Dimitri says it. And it is not entirely true, besides.

Honesty.

“I am… a little out of sorts,” Dimitri says. It is harder than it should be. “I had an interesting conversation with Sylvain last night, and consequently did not sleep much. I am still processing it.”

Dedue’s frown deepens into a glower, eyes flashing. Protective – _overprotective_ – but Dimitri feels a helpless surge of fondness for him all the same. Dedue would carry the weight of the world on his shoulders for Dimitri’s sake, too selfless and self-sacrificing by far. He is so disarmingly, impossibly _loyal_ that it surprises Dimitri every time.

Dimitri will never understand what he did to deserve him. Maybe… maybe he should stop trying to. At least for a little while.

“It is not Sylvain’s fault,” Dimitri tells him before Dedue gets too many ideas. “I asked him, but it…” He loses the thread. Not ready to talk about this, not yet, because the grief around Felix has somehow become even _more_ tangled up inside him. He is not sure he _can_ talk about it right now, even if he tries. “Can I… can we talk about it later?”

Dedue looks surprised. Then his face softens – affection, relief. “Of course. I will bring dinner to your chambers.”

“We are already -” Dimitri cuts himself off. They are already having lunch together, is what he was going to say, and Dedue has better things to do than hover over Dimitri all day. But the words die on his tongue when he takes a closer look at Dedue’s face.

Unhappy. Dedue is unhappy. Struggling, anxious, because Dimitri makes him so. Dedue’s eyes keep flashing across Dimitri’s face as though he is trying to memorise him, as though he is afraid that Dimitri will slip away when he is not looking. And how could he not be, after all Dimitri has told him?

Guilt is a familiar feeling. But Dimitri does not want to hurt him. He never wants to hurt him.

“All right,” Dimitri says. “Dinner.”

Once he parts from Dedue, Dimitri spends the rest of his afternoon at the summit meeting. Lord Denmar is not there, which is no surprise, but from the whispers passing around the table Dimitri can guess at the rumours already spreading like wildfire.

Dimitri has had enough.

“My lords and ladies,” he says, and the whispers abruptly cut out. “You seem distracted this afternoon.”

He looks directly at Denmar’s cronies. Watches them shrink at even the mildest reprimand. Nudging each other until one of them, a Lady Invell, stands up.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” She bows, her smile just as false as Denmar’s. “We mean no offence, of course. There is a great deal to be discussed, you see. Your Majesty has been pre-occupied by other matters, and of course we understand completely, but there are… other considerations at hand. Why, my good friend Denmar was saying just yesterday-”

“My lady,” Dimitri interrupts. Unsure where this is going, but certain it is nowhere good. “You will note the Lord Denmar’s absence in these chambers this afternoon. Let him speak for himself, when he returns. I hear he is good at it.” A pointed silence. He pins her with his heaviest stare, and her smile grows increasingly strained. “Let us stick to the topic at hand, shall we? There is ample time to discuss other matters outside of these chambers.”

“But Your Majesty, you have – ah, beg pardon.” She catches herself mid-protest. Coughs into her gloved hand. “I mean to say that we have missed you dearly during your absences at social events. Quite disconsolate without you, some would say. Some young ladies in particular…”

A titter. A meaningful look about the room. Dimitri just raises his brows, not even attempting to play along. It feels wrong to lie, to claim he has been doing anything important when it is his own madness that has kept him away. But in the face of this line of questioning, he finds himself remorseless. 

“You flatter me,” he says flatly. “But perhaps some clarification is in order. I regret that I have not been able to entertain you all, but other matters must take precedent, and I hope you will accept my apologies. I think you will find that regardless, a man such as myself is rather poor company for young ladies.”

“Why, Your Majesty, you are too modest. You are an eligible man of marrying age, of course, and it leads some to wonder-”

“Thank you, Lady Invell,” Dimitri interrupts. “You may be seated.”

For a moment, her mask melts. She looks furious. But she does not dare argue further, sinking down into her seat with a thwarted look on her face.

She gives up surprisingly easily, all things considered, but Dimitri is hardly going to complain about it.

“Duke Fraldarius, the next item on the itinerary, please.”

Dimitri can hardly stand to look at him. Too difficult to keep his kingly composure and handle Felix at the same time.

Once the summit is back in order, though, and Dimitri has successfully re-directed no less than three weak attempts to talk about marriage – there has been a _lot_ of gossip, it would seem – his attention… drifts. He sneaks a glance at Felix, just the one. Takes in Felix’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the slight upturn of his nose, the distinctive set of his brow. His hair, dark and fine, loose strands brushing against his neck.

Sir Wesley asked to marry him. The thought occurs every time Felix speaks, or nods, or looks in Dimitri’s direction. Sir Wesley asked Felix to marry him. And Felix never told him. (Felix said _no_. Why did Felix say no?)

Dimitri forces his gaze away. Does not look back. Does not look at Sir Wesley at all, even when he starts up with his usual speeches. He just waits for it all to be over so he can retreat back to the sanctuary of his chambers.

Felix is not so kind. He pounces the moment the meeting ends, leaning across the table and fixing Dimitri with a glare.

“I told you I could deal with Denmar,” he says, voice pitched low but undeniably irritated. “What on earth happened?”

There are a lot of things Dimitri could say. Should say, perhaps, because Felix is his right-hand man. But he just says, “He crossed a line.”

“You should have let me handle it,” Felix says through gritted teeth.

Dimitri just shrugs. Stands. He needs to get out of here. Needs to get away from the smell of Felix’s cologne, so tantalisingly close. They can argue about it another time.

He has not gone two steps before a hand catches him. Turns him back around to the sight of Felix’s scowling face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Felix hisses, blunt as ever.

Dimitri hates it, sometimes. Hates that Felix is so forthright, incapable of diplomacy. Hates it equally when Felix is cautious with him, contradictory and nonsensical as it may be.

But Dimitri is angry, all of a sudden. Irrationally, perhaps even hysterically, but he has coped all day. Dealt with Denmar and his court and kept himself entirely together, but this is the last straw. Felix is still touching him, hand clamped around Dimitri’s forearm, and -

“Let go of me.” Dimitri’s voice is low, for they are already drawing attention, but his tone is unmistakable. He wants out - _needs_ out. He cannot do this, not now.

Felix’s lips curl back. He peers into Dimitri’s face, clearly not liking what he sees. “You look awful. If your headache’s come back you need medical attention, don’t just go sulking in your chambers.” Dimitri flinches at the accusation – _sulking?_ – but Felix isn’t done. “You’re always stubborn about stupid things. I had Denmar under control, you didn’t _need_ to intervene. Why did you-”

Felix is angry. _Angry_. But then, all of a sudden, and for no reason Dimitri can discern… he backs down.

Backs down. _Felix_.

“Ugh, it doesn’t matter,” Felix says. Presses a hand to his temple, the other still holding Dimitri’s sleeve. He leans in closer, gnawing at his lip. Halting, awkward, as though… as though he is _vulnerable_. “What’s going on? You look… Just tell me, I promise I won’t-”

Dimitri snorts, an ugly sound. Felix startles, and Dimitri pulls his arm free. Registers the look on Felix’s face, but it -

Dimitri does not understand him. He does not understand him at all. Felix backed down from the fight – Felix _never_ backs down - and Dimitri does not _get_ it. He does not understand what Felix is doing, or why he has changed, or any of it. The only reply Dimitri can think of is childish in the extreme. _You never tell_ me _anything, why should I tell you?_

It’s petty. Too petty. They are not children anymore, so far from their childhood friendship as to be unrecognisable.

So Dimitri says nothing. Turns on his heel and stalks towards the door, but even then it is not enough. He hears Felix make to follow. Quick footsteps, a call of his name, as though Felix means to give chase.

“Felix.” That is Sylvain. Low, urgent, and Felix’s footsteps stop. He hisses something, too low for Dimitri to hear.

Dimitri is already out the door, and he does not look back.

\- - -

He feels a complete idiot by the time he drags himself back up to his chambers. He was doing _so well_ today, despite everything, but now...

Now he has ruined everything again. Stormed out on Felix with no provocation at all, as if their relationship is not already troubled enough. He heaves a miserable sigh as he crosses the threshold, fumbling with the laces of his cloak, and Dedue takes one look at his face and gets up to help him. For once, Dimitri does not protest. He has already managed to knot the laces, and he is only making it worse. Dedue undoes them without a single word of mockery, squeezing Dimitri’s shoulders when he is done.

“I am such a fool, Dedue,” Dimitri mutters.

Dedue squeezes him again. Dimitri manages a smile – rueful, but even he can find humour in his own ridiculousness sometimes. What a pathetic, foolish creature he is.

“Come and eat,” Dedue says. “I have made stew.”

If he cannot manage to untie his laces without incident this evening, the least Dimitri can do is serve them both dinner. He goes for the ladle, only to be immediately intercepted.

“Let me,” Dedue says.

“I can do it. You need not wait on me.”

“I am happy to.”

Dimitri shakes his head and reaches for the ladle again, but again Dedue is quicker.

“ _Dedue_. You are not my servant.” It is an argument they have had a thousand times. Stings every time, despite Dimitri’s determination to handle himself better.

But what is his determination? He dealt with the court competently enough, only to turn around and lose it with Felix. Felix's relationships are none of his business, but Dimitri cannot even _look_ at him without...

He startles at a hand on his shoulder. Looks up into Dedue's familiar green eyes. 

“I know I am not your servant," Dedue says gently, once he is certain of Dimitri's attention. Handling him like glass, which Dimitri hates, but - he is not exactly wrong to do so.

“Then let me serve,” Dimitri says, holding out his hand for the ladle.

Again, Dedue pauses. He studies Dimitri’s face. Tugs at his lower lip with his teeth. He looks, oddly, like he is having some sort of internal debate.

It is only stew. "Dedue."

Dimitri has no intention of backing down. Dedue must see it, for he shakes his head. Sighs an uncharacteristically heavy sigh.

"Forgive me, but it is better if I do it," he says. Then, with the air of a man making a dreadful, reluctant confession, "You... tend to make a mess, Your Majesty."

Dimitri blinks. Blinks again. “Oh.”

It is not what he was expecting to hear. Dedue looks positively pained, so Dimitri sits down in stunned silence. Watches as Dedue, with great concentration, ladles the stew into their separate bowls, sprinkling them both with a fine layer of cheese and a delicate garnish on top. He even wipes up the tiny amount of splatter on the bowls afterwards.

Dimitri cannot help it. All of a sudden, he finds himself laughing.

“Your Majesty?” Dedue is startled, but Dimitri just waves a hand, incapable of explaining himself.

Of course. Of _course_. It all makes sense, now. How did Dimitri not see it before?

“Do you dislike my tea as well, Dedue?” he asks when he is able to. “Is that why you never let me brew it?”

Dedue all but flinches. Goes still, hand poised over a loaf of bread. And all this time, Dimitri thought... he throws his head back and howls with laughter.

It is so _simple_. The boundaries of their relationship are complicated in some ways, but could not be easier in others. Dedue is a fastidious, tidy man who handles everything with care and consideration, but Dimitri is not half so careful. And Dedue would never say a word of open criticism about something so small. He would just shoo Dimitri away and go about the task himself, ensuring it is done to his standards.

It is so blessedly, hilariously _simple_.

“Ah, Dedue,” Dimitri says. Wiping tears of laughter from his eye. Smiling honestly for the first time in what feels like forever. “You should have just told me so.”

The fact Dedue did not wish to upset Dimitri – assumed Dimitri _would_ be upset by a criticism about his housekeeping in the first place – is both unspoken and incredibly endearing.

“It was not important,” Dedue says, placing Dimitri’s pristine bowl of stew in front of him.

“You will have to show me how to do it properly.”

“No small task,” Dedue says, the rare bit of sarcasm momentarily stunning Dimitri before he howls with laughter again.

It takes a while for Dimitri to calm down. A side effect of his strange turns of mood, he thinks, though this one is mercifully enjoyable for a change. Temporary, especially after the day he has had, but a welcome reprieve.

“Eat,” Dedue tells him. He makes jokes even more rarely than Dimitri does, and is obviously pleased that this one landed, but he still looks concerned.

Dimitri does not often laugh so hard, to be fair. There is every chance he looks somewhat hysterical.

He is sober again by the time they have finished eating, his mind pre-occupied. He promised Dedue an explanation. He fiddles with the last crust of bread, trying to work out what he wants to say. Dedue is waiting for him, endlessly patient, and Dimitri could certainly use his advice. Loathe as he is to talk about this… _thing_ inside him. All the tangled up pieces that comprise what he feels for Felix.

He has no idea how to lead into it. Gets right to the point, like ripping off a bandage. “Sir Wesley asked Felix to marry him.”

Dedue tilts his head. Calm. Nothing like Dimitri. “Did he?”

“A while ago, I mean. Not recently,” Dimitri clarifies. “I only found out last night. Sylvain told me, though I… I do not think he was supposed to.”

A pause. “They are engaged, then?”

“No. Felix said no.”

“I see.” Dedue frowns. Looks off into the distance, processing the information. It is comforting, at least, to know Dimitri is not the only one left in the dark.

Dimitri swallows. Tries to find a way to explain the hurt in his chest. Sir Wesley asked Felix to _marry_ him – shocking, arresting, agonising. And yet nothing to do with Dimitri. No reason for him to be hurt - he cannot explain it. The best he can manage is, “He never told me.”

“Hm,” Dedue says. “What else did Sylvain say?”

“Not much,” Dimitri says. “Only – well, that it was hard on Felix. And I never even knew.”

“Perhaps he did not wish you to know.”

“Why? Have I wronged him so irreconcilably? Am I unforgivable, do you think?”

Dedue shakes his head, and Dimitri subsides at once. Aware, all of a sudden, of the edge in his voice, the madness creeping its way in. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out, slow and steady.

“Felix approaches you often,” Dedue reminds him. “You went to the opera together.”

“Yes, I know. It is just…” Dimitri trails off. Picks at his bread crust.

Dedue watches him. Not judging, just thinking. “Did Sylvain say anything else?”

“That it was messy,” Dimitri mumbles. He is making a terrible mess himself, spreading crumbs all over the table. He does not stop. “And it knocked Felix around when I got sick.”

Felix was furious. Dimitri remembers it keenly. No wonder, looking back, if Felix received an offer of marriage then had to run to Fhirdiad in the middle of it all to look after the kingdom while Dimitri was lying around.

Dedue’s expression, though, clears. “Ah. There is your explanation, then.” Dimitri’s frustration must show on his face – why do people keep saying things like they expect him to understand? – and Dedue clarifies. “Perhaps you do not remember. You were very ill at the time.”

“Remember what?”

Dedue leans in, looking Dimitri right in the eye. Deadly serious. “Felix was deeply affected by your illness. We all were.”

Dimitri shifts in his seat, gaze flitting away. He never likes talking about his illness. “He was angry with me.”

“He is often angry when he is distressed. But he spent long nights by your bedside, as did I. You were delirious. It was… a difficult time.”

Dedue’s voice wavers - Dimitri is not the only one who finds it hard to talk about. Even now it is difficult to witness the look on Dedue’s face.

But Dedue composes himself. Clears his throat, takes a sip of water. Says, “Felix looked after you when I could not.”

Dimitri blinks. He does not remember that. He remembers Felix cussing him out and storming out of his chambers. Remembers the loud, loud arguments they had when Dimitri tried to do anything as strenuous as sit up, or bathe, or dress himself without assistance. Remembers Felix’s fights with Dimitri’s healers, and with Dedue, and his endless, endless anger with Dimitri.

But… that came after. After the worst. When Dimitri was lucid again. When the healers were sure he would live.

His memories of the fever itself are fragmented. He does not remember Felix sitting by his bedside. Cannot imagine Dedue _letting_ him, given how often they fought afterwards.

“I remember nothing of this,” he murmurs. Unsure he can believe it, though Dedue never lies.

“I understand it distresses you to think of Felix keeping secrets,” Dedue says. “I cannot pretend to understand his motivations, though… No. I will not venture a guess.” Dimitri raises his head to argue, but Dedue waves a decisive hand. “Guessing does no good. But Felix has proven his loyalty to you. I would have trusted no one else to sit by your bedside during the worst of it.”

“But you… you fought. All the time.” Dimitri definitely remembers that.

Dedue’s lips twist into the barest hint of a smile. “We disagree on many matters, it is true. But during your illness, it became clear that as far as you are concerned, we have the same priorities.”

It is not an answer. Not the answer Dimitri is looking for, not the piece that makes the whole puzzle make sense. But it is something.

Felix is angry with him. Felix never told him that Sir Wesley proposed. Felix sat at Dimitri's bedside when he was sick, the only person Dedue trusted to watch him in his stead.

Dimitri is still so, so confused.

But he thinks about it later, when he lies down to sleep. About his illness. He almost died, that is what they told him. His mind was a black haze of fever, days blurring together, reality and hallucination blending into one. He almost died, and when he came back to himself he pushed all thought of it away as though it had never happened.

Dimitri rolls onto his side. Stares out the window at the clear night sky. Dimitri never thinks of his illness, because Dimitri almost died. Came so, so close, and he wished…

No, he thinks. No.

He pushes that line of thought away. Reaches past it. Felix sat by his bedside. And Dimitri does not remember it, not from when he was lucid, but when he looks back, _really_ looks…

There is _something_. Just flashes, barely coherent. Unreal, a fever dream, shapes and sounds distorted by a haze of sickness. Even as he focuses on them, they slip through his fingers. And yet…

He… he remembers - he _thinks_ he remembers - the quiet murmur of Felix’s voice nearby. Remembers Felix’s hands, gripping his own, someone talking urgently – was Dimitri thrashing? A flash of dark hair reflecting moonlight. Exhausted, black-ringed eyes. A figure slumped in the chair by his bedside, head in his hands. Someone saying his name, _Dimitri, Dimitri_ , but Dimitri was too far gone to answer.

More. A cool hand on his brow. A low, rough voice, a melody sending him off to sleep.

Dimitri's heart stutters in chest. It is impossible. Felix hates to sing. Never does it, barely mumbling under his breath even in church services, glaring daggers at anyone who would challenge him. It could not have been him.

Impossible.

But Dimitri… Dimitri remembers. Hallucination, dream, reality - he does not know. But he remembers. He remembers struggling, crying out, pleading. That voice, breaking through the haze. Calming him, soothing him. And singing him off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait fam i'm goblin


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GENERAL CONTENT WARNING: Contains a scene where townsfolk clash with guards and the local lord. References to institutional abuse, corruption, and a murder.

Dimitri has little time to dwell upon the Felix situation in all its intricacies. The next morning he jolts awake, not to a nightmare, but to a pounding on his door.

“Beg pardon, Your Majesty,” the guard says, and Dimitri dismisses her apology with one hand, reaching out to take the letter with the other.

Rough paper and an unsteady hand, letter written in clear haste. _Your Majesty, we beg your aid._

He folds the missive over. Has, for a moment, a strange feeling of dissonance. He is so small and tired, wrapped up in his night things, pale and too thin and mad as ever. Just a man, nothing more.

_Please help us. Please_.

“Summon the knights,” he says. “As many as the palace can spare. We ride at once.”

They are gone within the hour. Hoofbeats thundering beneath them, the sun rising on the distant horizon, Dimitri’s great black cloak whipping in the wind. Dedue rides beside him, armoured and armed, surrounded on all flanks by mounted knights.

They ride hard. South, towards what once was the border of the Empire, instinct spurring Dimitri to push them on and on and on, as much as the horses can manage. The missive was desperate. Scrawled out hastily, in a hand that left little spots of blood upon the paper.

They ride, and Dimitri feels… tired. But he always feels tired. And filled with burning purpose, filled with the memory of a desperate plea for help, it does not matter so much.

He is the king. This is his duty, the reason he lived while so many others died. Dimitri is the king. So he rides.

“Your Majesty,” Dedue says. Just the once, a warning, a reminder.

But they make eye contact. And Dedue knows Dimitri well. Knows the difference between Dimtiri’s fits and Dimitri’s duty, and sees the latter written across Dimitri’s face.

So they ride.

They reach the town past nightfall, and it is the noise that hits Dimitri first. The chanting as he and his knights crest the hill and ride down, down, down. Hundreds of voices all blending into one.

“ _Bring him out. Bring him out_.”

“Steady,” Dimitri calls back to his escort. “No weapons.”

Dimitri ignores the murmur of dissent. Ignores even the heavy look from Dedue, who angles his horse closer with clear intent. Shielding Dimitri with his body as they ride through the town gates and see for the first time what lies ahead.

The streets are full of people. Angry people packed in tight, and the energy hits Dimitri like a wall, thrums in his head and heart and blood. He can feel the rage, the excitement, the _violence_ they are restraining even as they brandish what weapons they can muster. Simple townsfolk, ordinary people, banded together in a howling fury and crush of bodies.

But it is not them who make Dimitri’s sight tinge red. It is the guards. Rather than batons, they wield gleaming steel.

Against the people. Against _Dimitri’s_ people.

Dimitri raises a hand. The royal horn blasts, announcing his arrival, breaking through the chanting of the crowd.

Flashes of faces in the crowd. Another blast of the horn and Dimitri’s horse skitters beneath him, but he holds her steady. Shouts of, “The king! The king! Make way for the king!” Dedue at his side, pressed as close as their horses will allow, focused and tense, ready to guard Dimitri with his life. Forward, slow and careful, into the shifting crowd, quickly swallowed up.

The people part for them. Pull each other back, lower their weapons carefully away from Dimitri’s horse. Little by little, narrow as the streets are, the people make way.

Their shouts still ring in Dimitri’s ears, and sweat drips down his back with the visceral memory of battle. The crush of bodies pressed in tight, shouts and screams and the endless drumming of his heart. A blur between memory and reality, fragmented, but the blasting of the horn breaks through. The people move aside for him – simple people, with simple weapons, not soldiers at all.

Dimitri feels dizzy. His heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts in his chest.

“My people!” he calls as he reaches the front of the crowd. Right outside the local lord’s manor, wrought-iron fences and guards armed far too heavily for their task. Where an elderly church woman, after an attempt to hold the violence back, picks herself up off the ground with the help of the townspeople, pushed down by one of the guards.

_Calm_ , Dimitri reminds himself. _Calm_. And he is, his fury turning to ice in his chest, sharpening his senses, filling him with purpose, and justice, and _righteousness_.

Dimitri’s people called to him for help. And he will answer.

“My people,” he calls again. His voice carries in the night, rolling through the crowd like thunder. “I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of United Fódlan. I have heard your call for aid, and I have come. Lay down your weapons, I implore you. Lay down your weapons, and we will talk.”

_The king_ , he hears. _It’s really him. The king_.

Dimitri is just a man. Nothing like the kings of legends, sweating beneath his armour, heart hammering so loud he hears it in his ears. His anger barely cuts through the haze of tiredness that plagues him as much as ever. His speech is plain, nothing like the great tales, nothing worth repeating. He is just a man.

_The king came for us_. _King Dimitri. It’s him_.

Lay down your weapons, he bid them. And his people, both townsfolk and guards alike… they do.

\- - -

The story goes like this: the lord of the manor sought to make himself even richer, and tried to intimidate a local farmer of good reputation into bartering goods on his behalf. The farmer, who had reason to believe the goods were less-than-legitimately acquired, refused, and the lord seized her family’s land in retribution. 

“Legal, entirely legal,” the lord protests over and over. “Well within my rights.” 

But he sweats and shakes, for that is not the end of the sorry tale. He has long been a cruel lord, living in decadence while his tenants suffered hunger during the war. Long-hated, and suppressing that hatred with a ruthless contingent of armed guards acting as his own personal militia.

Corruption. Greed. Abuse of power. A common tale, though no less despicable in its predictability. But that is not the end of it.

The farmer’s son, a naive boy of only seventeen, went to plead with the lord unbeknownst to his family. A simple country boy, devoted to family and church, with no concept of how wicked people could be.

The townsfolk pulled his body out of the river two days later.

Dimitri passes judgment, for that is his duty. The lord leaves the town in chains, and the town’s future is made brighter, and fairer, and safer for all.

It does nothing to dry the family’s tears. For now justice is served and the anger is done with, there is nothing left but the grief. And grief is even harder to bear.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Dimitri tell’s the boy’s family.

The look in the farmer’s eyes is the same one he saw written on his own face the day his father died, the same inconsolable, immutable grief.

Dimitri presses a hand over his heart as he bows to her. Squeezes the shoulders of her other children, one by one. They are silent, rendered so either by their grief or his towering, guard-flanked presence, perhaps a combination of the two. But the youngest, a girl of no more than ten, meets his gaze with eyes burning with tears, and Dimitri bends a knee so he may see her properly.

“Your brother was a good, brave boy,” Dimitri says gently. Killer that he is he is poor consolation, and yet he cannot leave these words unspoken. “Sometimes the people we love are taken from us too early, and it is neither right nor fair.” The girl stares at the ground, eyes full of tears that will not fall, hands balled into fists at her sides. Dimitri understands. Dimitri remembers – he was much the same. He continues, quietly, “My father was taken from me when I was around your age. Afterwards, a dear friend of my father’s offered me advice that, at the time, I did not wish to hear. I thought no one could possibly understand what I felt. But his advice has helped me over the years, so I will share it with you now, if you will listen.”

A pause. A nod, if a small one.

“Remember that he loved you. Hold it in your heart, and never forget. And remember…” 

Dimitri trails off, thinking of Rodrigue. His hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, no matter how often Dimitri shrugged him away. A night where Dimitri could not sleep, his pillow soaked through with his desperate sobs. Rodrigue coming into his room, sitting on the edge of his bed. Resting a hand on Dimitri’s back, not scolding him as Gilbert might have. Just sitting with him until Dimitri’s tears eased. Sitting with him until finally, fitfully, Dimitri drifted off to sleep.

_Remember he died honourably_ , Rodrigue had told him. But Dimitri thinks of Felix, unbidden, and the words transmute in his mouth.

“Remember… you are allowed to smile again. When you feel ready.”

He pulls out his handkerchief. Presses it into the girl’s hand.

He thinks on it after, as Dedue leads him away. Wonders, briefly, if he dishonours Rodrigue’s memory by changing the words, for they helped Dimitri, truly.

But they did not help Felix. It has been so many years since he smiled freely, without restraint. And Dimitri wishes he could be so again. Wishes to see Felix _happy_.

It is almost painful, how much he wants Felix to be happy.

“Your Majesty,” Dedue says. Holding the reins of Dimitri’s horse, waiting to help him mount.

And that is another thing, another mark against Dimitri’s name. For Dimitri remembers a time when Dedue would have left him to it. Did not feel the need to steady either Dimitri or his horse, looking outwards and onwards, looking to his own future and the path he will walk. Dimitri’s dearest friend, his vassal, his ambassador, a renowned and celebrated warrior in his own right, one of the greatest people Dimitri has ever known. Yet here he stands, helping Dimitri climb onto his horse.

Dedue is so much more than this. Dimitri wants the world for him. Wants the world to see what Dimitri sees when he looks at Dedue.

He does not know how to change this cruel world they live in, or the past, or even himself. But realisation sweeps over him as he mounts up, sudden and firm.

Dimitri is going to try. For all his people. For everyone.

\- - -

The journey back is a slow one.

Dimitri is tired. Very tired, and in such a way that it makes him unsteady on his horse. No one says anything to him directly, for his knights are a loyal bunch, but he hears murmurs of _the king’s constitution_ when they think he is not listening. By some unspoken agreement they rest often, and spend the night at an inn rather than camping or riding it through.

It smarts Dimitri’s pride. Because in some ways he feels better than he has in a long time. Out on the open road, the wind in his hair and sun on his face. A task at hand, a clear vision, people to help and conflict to resolve. Real people, not cloying, sycophantic politicians trying to one-up each other with every breath. A reminder of why the nation needs a king, and why Dimitri stepped up to fill the role.

He feels… good. Settled. _Useful_. He knows Dedue is watching him with concern, wondering if this surge of activity will cause Dimitri to regress again, but Dimitri’s head clear for the first time in what feels like months. A rudderless ship regaining its bearings, a hopeless man regaining his sense of purpose.

But he is tired. A warrior of unstoppable strength who turned the tide of many battles, killed far more people than he ever had the right to, crushed and conquered with his sheer brute strength. And yet he is tired.

“Why am I so tired?” he complains under his breath as he makes his way up the inn’s stairs. The sun has not even started to set, yet here Dimitri is shuffling off to bed with Dedue following close behind. Watching his progress up the stairs as though thinking he might have to _catch_ him, which Dimitri will be offended about in the morning.

He is too tired now.

“It has been a long time since you have made such a journey, Your Majesty,” Dedue says as though his question actually warrants a dignified answer. He lowers his voice once they reach Dimitri’s bedchamber, the finest in the inn, though the innkeeper had been desperately anxious about giving it to him. “You have yet to recover your full strength after your fever. The healer said it would take some time.”

“Yes, yes,” Dimitri says, waving a hand. The healer said all sorts of things, and Dimitri paid attention to few of them.

He sleeps, for once. They return to Fhirdiad the next day, riding at an almost leisurely pace compared to the way they left it. Giving Dimitri the chance to actually enjoy it. He had forgotten how much he loves to ride. How much he loves to be active, to feel the sun and the wind and even the rain. It has been such a long time…

_You are always so far away_ , Sylvain told him. The truth of it, the whole truth, only sinking in now. Dimitri does not remember doing it, whether it came before or after the fever that almost killed him, or the bout of madness that has crept up on him slow but sure. But one day Dimitri turned away. Went into his chambers and shut the door, and he never came out again.

Dimitri’s rough exhalation receives a sharp look from Dedue, but Dimitri waves his concern away. Smiles, though it feels strange upon his face. He is getting tired of this constant stream of epiphanies.

They are inevitable, when he has been in hiding so long.

He means to return to work once they reach the palace, but he ends up spending the afternoon in his chambers instead. Not sleeping, but too tired to do much of anything useful.

Dimitri cannot begin to imagine the chaos that awaits him, and what dramatic tragedy has befallen the court next. But he finds he does not care as much. Sees clearer, now, with the memory of helping people who truly needed it.

He will deal with any political or ball-related catastrophes tomorrow.

Dedue stays with him, but Dimitri does not feel as bad about it as he usually would, because Dedue settles into an armchair and reads aloud. A tradition of theirs, as warm and familiar as a hot drink on a cold winter’s night. When Dedue was first learning to read, he would practice often, reading to Dimitri in haltering, stuttering steps. But with Dimitri’s patience, he stopped flinching at his mistakes. Reads steady and sure now, and though his voice has deepened and his confidence grown, he is much the same.

“It must have been the gardener,” Dimitri hypothesises while Dedue pauses for breath. “He could have crept into the manor while the party spread out onto the lawn. Grabbed the key to the attic.”

The novel is a mystery about a missing mystical artifact. Something fun and pacy that Dedue probably picked up on his travels to Duscur. Dedue does not often talk about his tastes, even with Dimitri. This is how he shares the things he likes – quietly, without fanfare, and only when he feels the urge to do so.

Dedue gives nothing away. Just raises his eyebrows, and returns to the book.

“Come on, Dedue. I am right, I am certain of it.”

“We shall see,” Dedue says.

A whole chapter and some fresh evidence later, it becomes apparent Dimitri is wrong. Truthfully Dimitri has never been good at these sorts of mysteries, has always found them too abstract and conceptual, while Dedue possesses an uncanny knack for piecing them together. It does not matter that Dimitri is bad at it – it is more amusing for both of them that way.

It is… nice. These traditions. Dimitri sprawled out on the sofa, Dedue in his favourite armchair, cup of tea in one hand as he reads from the book in the other. _Family_ traditions, Dimitri thinks, and swallows down the lump in his throat.

Dimitri has missed this, missed this easy companionship, missed feeling like _himself._ Just Dimitri. Not the king - Dimitri.

He wants to be better. For Dedue’s sake.

(And sometimes, in his better moments, for his own.)

“Wait, wait,” Dimitri interjects mid-sentence, and Dedue pauses obligingly. “The navy captain. It must be her who took it.”

“Hm,” Dedue says, noncommittal, though there is something of a sparkle in his eyes.

Dimitri is wrong again. Wrong every time, it turns out, and Dedue has to go over the facts with him again even once the true thief is revealed. Dimitri is really not good at these sorts of puzzles. But Dedue gives him one of his rare smiles, and Dimitri finds he does not mind at all.

\- - -

Felix, inevitably, works his way back into Dimitri’s thoughts.

Despite his exhaustion, when Dedue leaves him for the night Dimitri cannot sleep. Every time he shuts his eyes, he thinks about Felix. About Sir Wesley, and the proposal, and everything Dedue told him - that Felix sat at his bedside for night upon night, that he cared for Dimitri in Dedue’s stead.

Felix singing him to sleep. A memory half-remembered, perhaps even imagined. Yet it lingers.

_Enough_ , Dimitri tells himself. Enough.

It takes him a long time to get to sleep. And when he dreams, they are the confusing, chaotic sort of dreams that leave him feeling unrested when he wakes early the next morning.

He’s startled by the reflection that greets him in the mirror. His skinned is tanned darker, more healthy-looking for the days spent in the sun. Even his remaining eye looks brighter for the exercise, despite the black ring beneath it.

He looks… well. Not handsome. But less ghoulish.

He has quite a day ahead of him, he is sure. He has no idea how the court has shifted in his extended absence, because Denmar practically caused a riot and had all but persuaded everyone his daughter was engaged to Dimitri last time he was away, and that was only a day. Dimitri has no idea what chaos has transpired in his absence this time around.

But he finds it does not matter as much. Not now. Not when the memory of his real purpose - helping people, _real_ people, whether highborn or low - is so firmly in place.

It is a beautiful day. For once, Dimitri does not stay cooped up in his chambers until someone has need of him. He heads outside. Walks the palace grounds. Not quickly, for his limbs are heavy, and he is still so very, very tired, but he walks them all the same. Feeling the sun on his face, the air warmer now the lingering tendrils of winter have finally loosened their grasp upon the spring.

He walks for some time. Around the grounds and into the palace rose gardens, which are in spectacular bloom. His mind is quiet for the first time in what feels like a long time.

It doesn’t last. Dimitri isn’t the only early riser in the palace. He hears footsteps in the distance. Looks up, and –

Felix. It is Felix.

The good humour Dimitri had mustered this morning vanishes like the snuffing of a light. He is not _ready_ to see Felix. He swallows, chest tightening, still so terribly _confused_ by it all. He did not think he would have to confront Felix. Not yet.

Calm. Calm. Dimitri forces himself to take a breath. Shoves it all deep, deep down, where the rolling sea of confusion cannot touch him. Nothing has changed, not since the last time they saw each other, and Dimitri remembers that in excruciating detail.

Nothing has changed. And Dimitri can deal with everything else… later. (If ever. Maybe never.)

Felix is dressed for training, all sleek lines and sharp features, his hair is pulled back from his handsome face. He hesitates, just for a moment, exactly in the way that Felix only ever hesitates around Dimitri. Then he squares his shoulders. Strides over, clasping his hands behind his back as he comes to a halt in front of him.

“You’re back.” It is a greeting – not something Felix usually does. Dimitri stares, and his trepidation must show on his face, for Felix’s mouth turns down. “It’s… good to see you.”

A pause. “And you,” Dimitri manages.

Silence. Birds tweeting somewhere in the distance, trees rustling in the wind. But between them, dead silence.

“How –” Dimitri begins.

“I –” Felix says in unison.

They both stop. Dimitri can feel Felix’s eyes on him, but he looks away. Out to the distant mountains, his heart beating erratically in his chest.

“You go,” Felix says.

Dimitri swallows. Draws himself up to his full height, though it only highlights the differences between them. Felix is not a small man. In size, in presence, in sheer force of will, he is one of the biggest people Dimitri has ever met.

“How goes the court in my absence, Your Grace?” he says. Falling back on routine, on politeness, his one saving grace. With that safety, he is able to look Felix in the face at last.

It takes him a moment to recognise Felix’s expression. Dimitri is polite, but Felix looks … stung.

Felix scowls. Straightens his own back, though he is not as tall as Dimitri. “Fine. There are some issues that need your attention, but… you dealt with Denmar, as you said. I’ve kept things under control since.”

It is an admission, Dimitri realises. Felix’s striking features are twisted in discomfort – no doubt he remembers their last conversation (argument) equally well. But here he is. Admitting he judged wrong. That Dimitri was _right_.

Dimitri is not used to that. Not sure what to do with it.

“Good,” he says, stilted. “I feared my absence would exacerbate things.”

Felix shakes his head. “Denmar’s been sulking, but he hasn’t been causing trouble. He’ll keep.”

Felix shifts his weight. Scratches his nose, his cheeks flushing. He stares at Dimitri as if willing him to understand.

But Dimitri doesn’t. Felix hasn’t said the word, but this conversation feels almost like an _apology_. Like Felix, Dimitri’s most staunch opponent in every respect, never shy about expressing his long-term disapproval of him, is… trying to make up.

And just like that, memories well up, all the confusing, conflicting ones Dimitri has been shoving down. Felix’s hand on his brow. Felix murmuring to him, eyes glinting in the firelight, his voice soft. Felix clasping one of Dimitri’s hands in both of his, laying it gently back on the blankets.

There is a moment, just a moment, where there is a swooping feeling in Dimitri’s stomach. A thought, a question. An _if_ , and impossible _if_ , terrifying and exhilarating and liberating all at once.

But no. No. Not possible. Too frightening even to look at, and out of the realms of possibility besides, and Dimitri shoves it away.

Dimitri can’t. He _can’t_. It’s too much.

“Excuse me,” he says abruptly, right as Felix opens his mouth. “I had best return to my chambers. I will see you later.”

Dimitri is the worst of cowards. He turns on his heel and flees, palms sweating, heart pounding. He is being irrational again, but he lacks the skill to calm himself as Dedue might, to stop in his tracks, to be _reasonable_. His madness once again takes hold of him, as swift and subtle as a knife in the dark, and he does not know how to be otherwise. He will be embarrassed about it later, but in this moment, with panic clawing its way up his throat, he does not know how to stop.

But Felix doesn’t let him go. This time, there is no Sylvain to hold him back. Felix gives chase.

“ _Dimitri_ ,” he growls, and Dimitri can hear him hurrying after him. “Don’t just – I’m _sorry_ , all right? Can you just –”

That _is_ an apology, which is so out of character that Dimitri only quickens his pace. Unable to hear it, unable to accept it. (Unable to process all the things that it might mean, the realisation lurking at the back of his mind. Constant and intrusive and impossible, surely, but _there_.)

But Felix still won’t let him. He lunges forward. Catches Dimitri by the arm. Dimitri stops in his tracks, for Felix is strong, and Dimitri is unwilling to fight him for this, but he does not turn around until Felix makes him.

_Coward_ , his mind whispers.

Felix is breathing too hard. His face screwed up in an all-too-familiar look of frustration, barely keeping a lid on his temper. His grip is firm on Dimitri’s elbow.

“I’m not good at this. I know that. Sylvain said…” Felix looks away. Lets go of Dimitri’s arm, his expression conflicted. He shoves his hair back out of his face. “I’m trying to be better. I don’t even know what I d-”

Felix bites off whatever he is trying to say with a noise of frustration. He looks physically pained. Looks, now Dimitri thinks about it, like he is _upset_.

There is a strange roaring in Dimitri’s ears. Not following this conversation, or Felix’s line of thought, or any of it. Felix is talking like they are having a different conversation entirely. Almost like…

Not thinking about it. Dimitri is not thinking about it.

“Felix, I am not angry, I just have work to do,” he says. Anything to get the strange behaviour to stop. Anything to get back onto solid footing, back onto territory that Dimitri understands.

Felix hated Dimitri for years. Hated him so long it turned into indifference, and he became so distant that he never even bothered to tell Dimitri that someone _proposed_ to him. Those are the facts. Those are the things Dimitri knows.

Dimitri hates how distant they are. But there is safety in surety, all the same.

“Then why are you acting like this?” Felix bursts out. Seems to regret it a moment later, scrubbing a hand through his hair, messing it up. “ _Look_ ,” he says, voice tightly constrained. “I’m trying, all right? I’m trying.”

Dimitri looks at the ground. Nods acknowledgement, if only to get Felix to stop talking. (Dimitri needs him to stop talking. Everything he knows of them is crumbling. Uncertainty a terrifying, gaping void as a new version of reality looms around the edges of his vision.)

Felix heaves a sigh. Runs his hand over his hair _again_ , like some sort of nervous tic. “Will you still come and see the chamber orchestra with me?”

Dimitri cannot speak. Inclines his head again, short and abrupt. But he feels… ill. Not just in the way he is when having one of his fits, either – the lingering physical tiredness he cannot seem to shake morphs into something else, something worse.

He feels dizzy. He feels sick.

“All right,” Felix says, exhaling roughly.

(It occurs to Dimitri, just briefly, that Felix is as baffled by him as he is by Felix. Indeed, Felix looks as off-kilter as a man experiencing whiplash, but Dimitri shoves the thought down along with all the other confusing thoughts he has about Felix.)

“... Dimitri?”

Dimitri snaps his attention back to Felix. Realises it has drifted, and that he is swaying on his feet. Felix has been saying something, but Dimitri did not catch it. He feels overwhelmed, but more than that – he feels _ill_.

Felix’s firm, strong hand takes him by the elbow again. Dimitri does not have it in him to protest as Felix guides him towards a nearby bench.

“My apologies,” Dimitri says, strangely breathless.

“Just sit down,” Felix says, and Dimitri thinks from his clipped tone that he must be biting off the word _idiot_. But he guides Dimitri onto the bench with gentle, careful hands. His fingers drag as Felix pulls his hand away, lingering, almost as if Felix is _reluctant_ –

“You look pale. How long have you been walking?” Felix is crouching in front of him, peering into Dimitri’s face. His brow is furrowed, his lips thin.

“I think I must still be tired from the journey,” Dimitri says. Even though it is not an explanation, not even to himself, that he is so crushingly, achingly tired all the time. That he feels so ill now. “I have not ridden such a distance in some time. That is all.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Felix mutters, though he quickly relents. (Another thing that Dimitri notices and locks away. Felix is like a bloodhound on the scent, and yet he relents.) “Are you going to faint?”

“No,” Dimitri snaps, offended. He tries to stand, but Felix’s hand clamps down on him again.

A good thing, too. Because it is as he makes to stand that Dimitri realises Felix might not be far from the truth after all.

“Don’t be a fool,” Felix tells him. “I’ve never met someone so stubborn about unnecessary things. You’re unwell. Stay here and I’ll fetch a healer.”

“I don’t _need_ a healer.” Dimitri’s voice is entirely too high and strained. He is unsteady on his feet, tired after his journey, and he has walked too far today, that is all. He overestimated himself. But he is fine. He _will be_ fine.

“What do you think you’re going to achieve by working yourself to the point of collapse again?” Felix bites back. 

Dimitri bristles. Felix goes on and on and _on_ about his health, _all the time_. Dimitri is mad, not sick. He had _one fever_ several months ago, he is not an invalid. Why does Felix keep going on at him about it?

Even as he thinks it, the answer comes unbidden. Because Felix raced from Fraldarius to Fhirdiad in the dead of winter to govern in Dimitri’s stead, but more than that – Felix sat at Dimitri’s bedside while he lay dying. He sat with Dimitri through the long, dark nights as Dimitri lay thrashing and moaning and utterly insensible. Felix sat with him night after night, with little hope Dimitri would make it to the morning.

Dimitri does not like to think of his illness, not when he came so close, not when there was a part of him that wanted to. It never occurred to him to imagine what it must have been like for the people around him. For Dedue, and Sylvain, and all his friends. For Felix, too.

He has been cruel, he realises. Thoughtless, and prideful, and cruel.

Whatever else is going on between him and Felix, whatever the strain, the conflict, the misunderstandings and the confusion… in this, Dimitri has done him wrong.

He bows his head. Subsides. Pushes down the childish smarting of his pride. He does not want Felix to see him weak. He forgets, sometimes, that Felix already has.

“I am sorry for worrying you so,” Dimitri says. He looks up. Meets Felix’s eyes.

Felix’s eyes flicker over Dimitri’s face. His throat bobs, his lips parting. There is a furrow between his brow, something almost helpless about the set of his face.

It is an expression Dimitri remembers from his strange fevered dreams. An expression that makes something ache in his chest.

Felix does not say anything. He is still crouching in front of Dimitri. Reaches out and takes Dimitri’s gloved hand in his, pulling the glove off him in swift, practiced motions. Dimitri lets him, stunned into stillness.

Felix’s warm, calloused palms enclose Dimitri’s bare hand. He hisses, squeezing Dimitri’s fingers.

“Your hand is freezing,” he says. Sharp. Concerned. He glares up at Dimitri in something like defiance, like he has proven a point, because despite Dimitri’s walking his hands are freezing cold.

But Dimitri has long since lost the thread of the conversation. Felix’s skin is warm and rough against his own, foreign and unfamiliar. Holding Dimitri’s bare, bare hand, that no one ever touches, that no one ever has cause to.

Felix does not care for him. This is what Dimitri knows. Felix is so angry and cold and far away, and Dimitri is nothing to him at all. So far from anything resembling friendship that he never even knew Felix was seeing someone, that it was serious, that Felix could have been _engaged_. And Felix never told him. Never wanted to tell him.

And yet Felix is here. Dimitri knows this as well. Felix is crouching in front of him with Dimitri’s hand in his own. _Chasing_ him when Dimitri walks away.

(He sang to him. As Dimitri lay dying. Felix soothed his delirious cries, and sang him off to sleep.)

There is something in that. Not something Dimitri is ready to examine.

“Dimitri, you need to see a healer.” Felix is wearing a look Dimitri knows all too well. Insistence, determination, the _why are you such a fool_ heavily implied. He will fight Dimitri on this, without hesitation and without any holds barred. Every fibre of his being screams that he is ready to be challenged, and fight, and win.

But his hands around Dimitri’s are so gentle and warm.

Dimitri stares at them. Something settling into place. Something too big and too frightening to look at just yet. Something he is not ready to face.

But a healer he can do. It feels inevitable, really. Inevitable.

He heaves a sigh. It is not easy for him, and his pride still stings. But he gives in. “As you wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I am back! Took a little break from writing, started a Master's degree, fell down The Untamed rabbithole, vibed. What's new with you? :D


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